


Of Blood and Faith

by disparity



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Mages and Templars, Past Anders/Karl - Freeform, Templar Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Hawke is a templar who has a terribly bad habit of falling in love with mages, and Anders is a misguided and mistreated man who has to learn what it is be loved before he destroys himself and half of Kirkwall with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Templar

**Author's Note:**

> This is my re-imagining of Dragon Age II with Hawke as a templar, because... clearly we needed this whole mage-templar plot to get more complicated.
> 
> The main pairing is Anders/Hawke. There's not much Aveline/Hawke except in the first few chapters because I simply couldn't resist. Hawke/Warden is mostly past-tense but there's a fair bit of it and that's all I'm going to say about that.
> 
> I do paraphrase some canon lines here and there, though usually if I cover a scene from the game, I'll change it up quite a bit. Any events I skip over can be assumed to have happened more or less the way they would've with a templar-aligned Hawke that's a bit of a mix between diplomatic and direct. These first few chapters skip around quite a bit to setup the AU.
> 
> Comments, opinions, and suggestions are more than welcome.

Lothering smelled of death and smoke.

The corpses of townsfolk and corrupted creatures filled the streets, slain by blade or arrow, their flesh mangled by sharp teeth. There was little left to do. The people of Lothering had fled or perished, and there was nothing else to protect.

Deliverance had come too late.

The last templar--perhaps the last living thing--in Lothering couldn't say how many wicked creatures fell by her blade, but it was not enough. It was obstinacy or madness that kept her moving long after her limbs had grown heavy, body aching beneath her sullied armor. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't slept. In two days, she'd done little but fight; she kept at it because she still had breath, and wasn't that enough reason?

But it wouldn't be long now. She was cold and weary, and there was no end to the darkspawn. Formidable as she was, she couldn't possibly kill them all.

Twilight brought with it a brief pause in her mindless slaughter. The templar's helm creaked as it twisted this way and that, the eyes beneath scanning her surroundings. They were clear of enemies, for the moment, however long that could last. Only once she lowered her weapon and shield did she notice where she was standing. In her delirium, she'd carved a path through the darkspawn to the remains of the Lothering chantry.

What was once a holy place was now only blood and gleaming rubble.

Her knees shook, steel greaves clattering in the silence. Her only desire was to give into this bone-deep weariness, to spend her last moments prone before the Maker in fervent prayer. But a sudden pang of pragmatism kept her on her feet, carried her to the storeroom, brushed the debris from the storage hatch, and pulled.

Food. Water. Lyrium. Maker knew why she even bothered. Her suffering would only end in death. Still, numb fingers packed supplies into a bag and slung it over her shoulder, paying no mind to despair. Resisting the pull of her survival instincts would've taken more will than she possessed.

She must've made the decision to run somewhere along the way, though she did not remember it. Her armor clanged as she clumsily shuffled forward, weapon and shield shifting at her back. Through the fire in her chest and the lead in her legs, but she kept moving.

Run. Kill. Run.

Voices. Maker, was she hearing things now? A ragged laugh caught somewhere in her throat. Just as well. Darkspawn or madness; what did it matter?

“Mother! Stay back!”

So many had fallen before the darkspawn. Not her. Not yet.

Soon.

“Bethany, are you alright?”

“My mana's low, but we have to keep moving.”

Mana. Mage. Magic.

... _Magic_.

 _That_ was the feeling in the air, the buzzing in her skull. It was not madness. The voices were not in her head; they belonged to maleficarum, come to add a last insult to the Maker on this day of destruction. It was her duty to stop them.

She made the attempt to collected her muddled mind. Too many pieces were lost, scattered across the ruins of Lothering. She was almost on the mages now. Maker help her, she'd _find_ the will. If it was the last thing she did, she'd smite these maleficarum. She'd fulfill her duty. She had failed to protect so many, but she would not fail in this.

Alertness pushed its way through her hazy mind. She grasped it with steel-clad fingers, held to it like a lifeline. The mage were just ahead, running--running like she was, running from... no, running _into_ darkspawn.

Of a sudden, several things called to her attention: a sharp pang her stomach, another surge of magic, and the face of the woman who stood with the single dark-haired mage girl, out of the darkspawn's reach. She ignored her pain and the singing in her nerves, the call of magic begging to be silenced, to focus on the woman's face. The memory, faded though it was, came to her before the name.

Surely, she thought, this was the Maker's intervention. It could be nothing else.

Before she could think on it further, she ran. Past the woman, past the mage. She stuck her blade into a genlock that had lost interest in the frontline warrior in favor of his more vulnerable family. He startled as a sudden templar lunged forward and bashed her shield into the approaching enemies but quickly decided they were the grater threat.

She slashed with blade, and the warrior swung in wide arcs. Several of the darkspawn caught fire, allowing them to thin the rest. The last of the horrid creatures fell at her feet with a swift killing blow, splashing fresh blood over her stained breastplate. The flaming sword and shield were hardly visible beneath it; still, the warrior's eyes widened.

“A templar,” he breathed, panting with exertion. “You stayed behind? Did any of the others-?”

“They're all gone,” she said, voice cracking. A cough rattled in her throat. She cleared it, then shook her head. “Everyone's gone or dead.”

Despair crossed his face. She could not bear to see it, lest it bring to mind her own memory of a brother in arms falling to the darkspawn. If she survived long enough to ever sleep again, she'd see his death in vivid detail, but now was not the time.

From behind them, the mage and her mother shuffled, whispering. They stopped abruptly, going perfectly still as she turned to face them. For a long, tense moment, nothing was said. When they came, the words were a whisper, choked with sorrow. “You'll not have her.” The woman's grip tightened. “You'll not have my Bethany.”

So much to say, yet she know nothing would suffice.

The templar released the clasp on her helm, movements slow and labored as tendrils of exhaustion caressed her mind. It would've been so _easy_ to give in, but she did not. She was a warrior, a guardian, and here at last was something to protect. All was not lost.

Not yet.

“I wouldn't detain your daughter, Leandra.” Emotion weighed her words down; so quiet, they almost didn't carry.

A flicker of confusion crossed Leandra's face. It took her another moment. “Oh, Maker,” she breathed, once she found the words. “The whore's daughter.”

“Ser Marian Arathas,” said the templar, closing a fist over her chest. “At your service, my lady. Your family is under my protection. I will suffer no harm to befall you or your children.” The words came easily. Safe words, things she had uttered to a hundred mothers. She was grateful that she did not have the time for anything more. “We must move quickly if we're to escape the darkspawn,” she continued, studying the path ahead before turning back, catching Bethany's eye.

Mage studied templar. Allies by circumstance, though fate would mark them as enemies.

Bethany nudged her mother. “We have to go.” She looked up, searching Marian's face. “She's not going to take me,” she added with a confidence that Marian did not share. “There's nowhere _to_ take me.”

Marian could not think about that either, so she turned and led them away from danger--or towards it. There was no way of telling.

***

Voices reached them from the path ahead, half-words mixed with guttural noises. Marian shared a glance with the warrior--Carver, if she recalled--before deciding these were not in her head. As if by unspoken agreement, he rushed forward to meet them while Marian corralled the others, guarding them. As the darkspawn came into view around the next corner, another battle began.

Weariness had worn its way through her entire body, muscle and bone. Sluggishness earned her a blade slipped through her right pauldron and a searing wound to the shoulder. A blast of fire felled the beast as she staggered. She dislodged the blade with a cry of pain, rising with her shield just in time to fend off another attack.

From ahead, she could hear the sounds of more than one warrior engaged in battle--twanging blades and battlecries, a woman's voice, “You will not have him!” Marian only caught a flash of orange hair and a templar insignia before the next creature rushed her.

It was only with Bethany's help that she took down the errant darkspawn, for her wound burned with each movement of her sword arm. She needed healing, quickly. She had given Leandra the parcel of supplies--there was a single potion at her hip, but as the darkspawn pressed their advantage, she found herself pinned and unable to reach for it.

And then the mage was there, freezing the surrounding enemies with a blast of ice, giving Marian an opening to access the potion. Bethany stood with her for the remainder of the battle, calling down ice and flame to deliver them from their terrible foes. The use of magic in such close vicinity made Marian's head spin. The faint buzzing grew uncomfortable and ever more insistent within her skull. The urge to silence the mage's spellcasting waxed stronger with each passing second, and Marian continued to resist it.

_Maker, forgive me. I cannot abide my duty._

Clearing the immediate area of darkspawn left the way unhindered, for a moment. Their comrades turned out to be an injured man in full templar regalia and an army officer who bore his shield.

Marian approached them in time to hear the templar croak, "Apostate," gesturing weakly at Bethany.

 

“It's alright, dear,” said the officer, helping him to his feet. “She's with another templar. She is not your responsibility.”

His eyes widened as they took Marian in. They exchanged salutes; his was punctuated with a sharp hiss of pain.

“Brother, this mage is my charge,” said Marian, nodding to Bethany. “She has agreed to come with me willingly. In light of the darkspawn threat, I have chosen not to incapacitate her.”

He seemed ready to protest, but with a few more soothing words from the officer, he dropped the matter. “Your actions be just before the Maker, sister,” he recited. “I am Ser Wesley, and this is my wife, Aveline.”

Talking pained him; Aveline put a stop to it with a wave of her hand. “We too flee the horde. The main body advances from the north.”

“Then we must go south,” said Marian.

“Into the wilds?” Carver griped. “That's no escape! It'll kill us as surely as the darkspawn.”

“Well, the trees don't have teeth,” said Bethany, her voice taking on a high, anxious note.

Marian took a step between the twins, who looked ready to argue. “We go south,” she declared in a tone that settled the matter. She turned back to Wesley. “Can you walk, brother?”

“I can manage,” said Wesley with a grunt.

“Then we walk.”

***

Carver scouted ahead of them; Marian walked with Aveline, weapons at the ready, while Bethany kept an eye on their rear. They were moving slowly—too slowly—and though the pain in Marian's shoulder was bearable and a stamina draught had restored a portion of her strength, she was not sure how much longer she'd be able to stay on her feet.

As they walked, Aveline glanced over and asked, without preamble, “Were you at the chantry in Lothering?”

“No." Marian sighed, straightening her shoulders, and promptly wincing, as she collected her thoughts. “I was stationed at Kinloch Hold when news of the Blight spread. We... were experiencing internal problems at the time.” Marian felt the urge to rub her eyes and brought a hand to her face, where it clanked against her helm. The dull ringing gave her a moment's pause.

“Problems with the mages?” asked Aveline, nodding towards Bethany.

“Yes. The mages.”

After a brief pause, she prompted, “And how did you come to be here?”

“A fellow brother and I were assigned to track a dangerous maleficar,” Beneath her helm, Marian's expression hardened. “He eluded us. We were headed for Lothering when... we met the darkspawn.”

Aveline faced forward. Evidently she had sorted through the implications, for she said, “I'm sorry.”

Marian was bereft of words--but it made no differnce, for the ground beneath them suddenly heaved.

“What was that?” Aveline called to Carver, ahead of them.

 _Too far_ ahead of them. Marian noticed it at once. She should've been paying better attention, should've called him back, but it was a day of _too late_ and _not enough;_ and as Marian raced into the clearing beside Aveline, she knew that she had failed again.

The ogre held Carver in one large purple hand. His shout cut off with a sickening crunch.

Leandra's wail cut sharply across the clearing. Marian turned and shouted at her to stay back, out of harm's way. Her raised voice drew the ogre's attention. The earth shook as the brute turned to Marian and charged.

She threw herself out of its path, landing heavily on the ground. It was too large a beast to alter course so quickly, and so it stumbled about, threatening to crush Aveline under its large feet. Marian scrambled to right herself as Aveline's sword pierced the ogre's side.

The beast swung its massive hand at Aveline in an attempt to swipe her up. A shower of flame from Bethany dissuaded that notion. The beast bellowed in pain, and Marian used the distraction to her advantage.

She went for the leg Aveline had damaged, marking a long gash with her blade. She was running through strategies in her mind, trying to think around how in Andraste's name to fell such a beast, when the snarls of more darkspawn met her ears.

Aveline turned to her, a look of alarm in her eyes. For a second they could not spare, the two women stared at each other, each waiting for orders. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Marian took the lead. “Keep them off me,” she said, and then shouted to Bethany, who also hovered in indecision, “Distract it, Bethany!”

Horror crossed the mage's face, and Marian distinctly heard Leandra wail, “No!” but there wasn't time to argue. Marian ducked under one of the ogre's stomping feet, sticking it again with her blade. Flames leapt from Bethany's staff. Either the beast was too stupid to realize the fire was coming from the distant mage instead of the warrior at its feet, or it simply decided Marian was the bigger threat, as it continued to focus his efforts on her.

The Order had never offered lessons on how to kill beasts ten times one's size. The best Marian could do was form the words of a quick prayer in her mind and throw a smite its way.

Her attack disoriented the ogre, albeit momentarily, allowing her time to prepare. _Weak spots, Marian. Everything has a weak spot._ The words must have been from the Maker Himself, for instantly, a plan formed in her mind.

“Come here, you great fool!” shouted Bethany as Marian's shield clattered to the ground. “I'm only raining fire down on your big, empty head!”

With a great leap, Marian plunged her blade into the beast's flesh as high as she could reach. She hung by the hilt precariously, sliding down its thigh for half a second before she managed to stick a smaller blade in beside the first. The ogre roared and swung around; Marian wrapped her legs around it and best she could and held on for dear life.

“You bloody stupid brute!” Bethany squealed, red-faced. “For the Maker's sake, you ugly thing, will you _look at me_?”

The ogre turned again. Marian's sword slipped, and so she stuck it in again, higher, and followed suit with the dagger. Working quickly, for the ogre had just now realized she was _on_  it, she climbed higher. Its hand reached for her, but her blade had found its lower back. It staggered. Hanging on with her longsword, clinging to the brute's side with her knees, Marian plunged her dagger again and again into its flesh.

Blood spurted from the wound, drenching her armor thoroughly. The ogre staggered once more. With Marian on its back, it fell forward towards Bethany. Marian watched her dive out of the way with a scream, clearing the monster's path at the last moment.

It landed with a mighty thump, rattling Marian through to her bones. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue, drawing blood. She could sense Bethany casting again, but the ringing in her ears drowned out any noise. Time seemed to move very slowly as she tried to lift her limbs, only to find that they were far too heavy. He head lolled back as the world went dark.

***

The next thing Marian was aware of was the pain in her neck and warm tingling in her extremities. Muffled voices reached her. She wished they'd stop so she could go to sleep. Maker, but it had been such a _long_ time since she slept. She deserved it, didn't she? Chasing that blasted maleficar all around Ferelden, with Stratton telling terrible jokes and... and falling forward, blood dribbling from his mouth because the daft boy had removed his helm when she'd _told_ him not to...

And now the maleficar was casting on her—how had he found her?—and he was touching her face and _oh Maker she could hear the magic singing in her blood,_ and she leveled a holy smite at him because she was a _templar, servant of the Maker,_ and she would not go down easily.

The hands on her face were gone and Marian had to get up, _needed_ to get up. Her vision swam with stars; the pain in her head was enough to make her cry out. She flailed wildly, unyil her arms were pinned behind her back with force.

Someone was yelling—civilians? She be damned if she let innocents die—and the feeling was slowly returning to her limbs. She struggled against the hands that bound her, only to hear her name shouted mercilessly in her ear.

“Ser Marian! Marian, it's over! Can you hear me?”

“I... I-I silence you, maleficar, in the name... name of the Maker...” she muttered, squirming, hissing at the pain in her head.

“There are no maleficarum, Ser Marian,” said the voice firmly. “The only mage here is the one trying to save your life.”

Marian grunted. “Liar,” she snarled, kicking out uselessly with her legs.

From somewhere to her left, a woman cried, “Bethany! Oh Bethany, you're alright. Thank the Maker. I could not lose two children today.”

Something stirred in Marian's memory. “Bethany?”

“Yes, Bethany,” said the voice. “The mage who's healed your ungrateful arse. And I'm Aveline, the very tired, impatient woman who is going to rap you about the head in a minute, concussion or no.”

Well, that was not _usually_ what maleficarum sounded like.

Slowly, Marian regained her senses. Her memories came back sharply, painfully. Bethany. Aveline. _The ogre_.

“Maker's breath,” she moaned. “Oh, is it dead?”

“Yes. You killed it. It was quite impressive. Of course, then you smote your healer. That was distinctly less impressive.”

“Bethany? Bethany, are you-?”

“Don't try to sit up,” warned Aveline. “You've done a number on your head.”

Another moan worked its way through her dry throat. Her vision was still unclear, but Marian felt hands on her face again. She stiffened, and Aveline tightened her grip.

“I'm alright, Ser Marian,” said Bethany, her voice shaking. “Please, drink this.”

Marian felt the cool touch of glass on her lips. She obeyed, allowing the liquid to slide down her throat, warming her to the core. Her head cleared, and she blinked her bleary eyes. The hazy blur of colors slowly separated into distinct objects, and she found Bethany's concerned, frightened face peering into her own.

“Bethany,” she breathed. “I'm so sorry.”

The mage pursed her lips, then smiled grimly. “That's alright. You were delirious. How long has it been since you've slept?”

Marian sat up slowly, and Aveline loosened her arms. “Does it matter?” she asked, blinking away the last of the haze. She looked around, eyes lingering on the fallen ogre. She could hardly believe that'd _worked_. Shaking her head, she turned to Aveline. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough,” said Aveline. “They'll be on us in minutes. We have to get moving.”

But they did not have minutes. The sound of their battle had drawn innumerable darkspawn to their position. Marian pulled herself to her feet and shared a look with Aveline. Both warriors drew their swords, knowing they would not win.

And then, the Maker intervened. Marian was not enamored with the way He chose to do it, but when faced with miracles, she knew better than to complain.

 


	2. Protector

Marian absentmindedly thumbed the witch's amulet, her feet swinging over the ledge as she looked on Gwaren.

Fiddling with her hands had always been a bad habit of Marian's. She'd lost count of how many small objects she'd broken over the years. She liked to touch things, feel the weight of them in her hands, and run her fingers over smooth and rough surfaces, memorizing them.

She'd always been a restless girl. Never sat still for a moment, the Chantry sisters complained. As she'd grown, Marian had developed an appreciation for silence and stillness; but when anxiety bled into her waking hours, she invariably reverted to all her old ways.

Bad habits. Bad memories. Sometimes Marian thought she was made of little else.

The door creaked behind her. Marian drew her blade on instinct; she'd removed her armor, but the scabbard still laid heavily on her back. When she saw who had intruded on her solitude, she immediately regretted the action. Bethany's blue eyes went wide, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. Marian sheathed her weapon.

“I'm sorry, Bethany. You startled me.”

Bethany attempted a smile that was more of a grimace. “You'd think I would learn not to do that.”

“I'm sorry,” repeated Marian. She looked away in shame. “I cannot blame you for being frightened of me after the way I've behaved. Nevertheless, I want you to know...” Bethany still hovered in the doorway, blinking curiously. Marian exhaled slowly. “You'll be neither harmed nor detained by my hand.”

_Protecting the apostate. Forgive me, my Maker._

The mage's lips twisted in a thoughtful expression. After a moment, she stepped out onto the roof, closing the door softly behind her. “Not to sound ungrateful, but... why?” she asked as she came to sit by Marian on the ledge. “Mother... Mother won't tell me. But you've met before.”

“I met your mother many years ago,” said Marian carefully, “and I caused her a lot of trouble. I fear my reappearance may have forced her to revisit some unhappy memories. It's understandable that she'd prefer not to share them.”

“She...” Bethany glanced down anxiously. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “She called you the... whore's daughter?”

Marian sighed once more, giving the mage a pitying look. “It is not my place to tell you.”

“That you're my sister?” Bethany finished. She looked into Marian's face, and again Marian met her searching gaze. “Half-sister, I expect?”

“Bethany-”

“I'm not a child.” Maker, the mage sounded _hurt_. “I know that my parent's marriage... I know that it wasn't all as happy as they wanted it to be.” Her eyes pierced Marian's as she said, “I'm not as stupid as they think I am.”

Marian took her hand. “You're not stupid-”

Bethany laughed without mirth and said, “You wouldn't know, would you?” Then she winced. “Sorry, I didn't mean... I just...” And then Bethany's eyes filled with tears, and Marian went rigidly still. “I just lost my brother. If I have a sister too, then... Well, that doesn't make up for it, but... I-I... Mother has _no right_ to keep that from me. Not when we've already lost so much.”

Slowly, Marian breathed in and out, willing her muscles to relax. _A sobbing mage. Maker's breath._ She gently rubbed circles on the back of Bethany's hand, trying to school her expression into something acceptable.

Marian was just thinking that she must've done something wrong when Bethany started to laugh. Marian's eyes widened. _Is that good? Perhaps not. Sweet Andraste, I've brought this on myself, haven't I?_

“Just look at me, spilling my soul to a templar,” said Bethany between short, shuddering breaths. “If Father were here, he'd go off on another lecture. Oh, but I _miss_ his lectures.”

Marian was certain she was grimacing. _Maker, please don't let her look up._ Just as she had the thought, Bethany _did_ look up, only to burst into that terrifying mixture of tears and laughter that had Marian at a loss.

“Oh, but I _am_ a fool. Look at you! You'd rather throw yourself off this roof than listen to me moan.”

“That's... not true,” said Marian haltingly.

“Ha! Don't lie to me, Ser Marian.” Bethany licked her lips again, patting Marian's hand. “You're too kind. Just tell me to leave you be and go and regale a bloody Sister with my woes instead.” She started. “Oh. That's blasphemous, isn't it? _Maker_.”

Marian chuckled nervously. “You are...” She shook her head. “Unlike any mage I've met.”

That was most definitely the _wrong_ thing to say, but bless her, Bethany only gave a watery smile. “We don't all deal with demons, you know.”

Pursing her lips, Marian said, “I know.” She applied gentle pressure to Bethany's hand.

After a short, contented pause, Bethany suddenly came to herself. “Oh, I must look an awful mess.” She pulled her hand away to wipe her eyes. Marian let it go with a soft breath of relief. When she was finished, Bethany smiled, and it almost reached her eyes. “Thank you, Ser Marian. Whatever happens from here... I'm not sorry I met you.”

And with that sentiment, one whose naked sincerity Marian could not begin to fathom, Bethany rose to her feet. She headed for the door, leaving Marian stunned in her wake. But the mage was not finished. She paused on the threshold, turning back to say, “You know, with the way you handled that ogre...” Bethany shrugged softly. “Bastard or templar you may be, but in my book? You're a Hawke.”

The door snapped shut behind her. Marian sat staring at it with a gaping mouth for some time before shaking her head, sighing, and turning back to the view. She blinked at the dark skyline. For several long moments, she was still. Then she began to worry the amulet in her hands again, and she kept at it until the sun rose.

***

Marian returned to Gwaren's makeshift refugee quarters, salty and windswept from a quiet walk along the coast, to find Aveline waiting for her with a glint in her eye. Marian startled to see her sitting on the bed they were meant to share (but had not, due to Marian's utter lack of sleep thus far) looking every bit as though she had been sitting there all afternoon awaiting her companion's return.

“Aveline,” said Marian when the woman did not greet her first.

“Ser Marian,” came the response. Aveline straightened. “I'd hoped to catch you alone. Leandra and Bethany are at the market.”

Marian nodded. “I see.” She also saw that Aveline was not the sort of woman to be easily deterred from a decided course of action, and so she took a seat on the opposite bed. “What would you ask of me, Aveline?”

“I'll ask why you haven't done your duty to the Maker and turned in the apostate.”

 _Very well._ At least Marian knew what to do with directness. “I have forsaken my vows as a templar,” she said, and tried not to reveal how much the admission wounded her. She spared no glance for the painstakingly cleaned armor piled in the corner, did not think of how naked she felt without it. “I am no longer worthy to serve in the Order.”

Aveline raised an eyebrow. “Because of the apostate, or something else?”

“With respect, it is a private matter, and we are but strangers.” Marian folded her hands in her lap. “I appreciate your help with the darkspawn. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but it seems to me that you are an honorable woman. I know that many things are uncertain at the moment-”

“Oh, enough of this,” said Aveline, waving her off. Marian blinked in surprise, and Aveline snorted. “I've got nowhere to go and no one to go there with. Unless you owe some debt to the mage and her mother, neither do you.” She sighed. “My husband would never forgive me for saying this, but I don't give a damn about the sodding templars. Your allegiances are your business.”

Brow furrowed, Marian tried to make sense of this. “What are you saying, Aveline?” she asked, shaking her head.

“We work well together. We _stay_ together.” Her voice took on a husky quality. “A woman on her own needs friends, doesn't she?”

Marian studied the woman before her. By all evidence, Aveline was brusque, sensible, and handy with a blade. Marian could do a lot worse for friends, and she found herself sorely lacking in them at the moment. Her brothers and sisters of the Order would not take kindly to her desertion.

Marian nodded once. “She does.”

Aveline returned the gesture firmly. “That's settled, then.” At last, her stare softened and settled somewhere else. “Where do we go from here?”

“The Free Marches, I suppose?” said Marian, glad for the change of topic. “Any place out of Ferelden will do. Do you have family or friends anywhere?”

“Right now, you're the closest thing I've got.” After a pause, she added, “Marian,” pointedly dropping the honorific.

Rubbing her tired eyes, Marian said, “I don't know much about the Free Marches. It's likely every city on the coast is up to their ears in refugees already.”

“Could we try farther inland?”

“We could." She worked through the suggestion in her mind, though it took longer than usual to process her thoughts. Her exhaustion was still taking its toll. “We might take ship with Bethany and Leandra. They're headed for Kirkwall.”

Aveline's expression darkened. “Not a wise decision for an apostate.”

Marian frowned. She'd heard little of Kirkwall, but from what she understood, the templar presence _was_ strong there. Perhaps she could convince Bethany to go somewhere else. _Still protecting the mage._ Marian would've chided herself again, but she hadn't the heart.

“Nevertheless, if they intend to sail to Kirkwall,” continued Aveline, “we have no reason not to join them. They've been dependable traveling companions thus far. And...” Aveline's raised eyebrow reappeared. “The mage is strangely fond of you.”

Turning away to hide the flush in her cheeks, Marian muttered, “She's been through an ordeal. She knows I won't harm her.”

Aveline looked utterly unconvinced, but she only shrugged and said, “To Kirkwall, then.”

***

That night she lay in their small, cramped bed, doing her best not to brush against Aveline. It was impossible, but that did not stop her from squirming. She kept at it for some time before Aveline rolled over and placed a hand on her waist. Marian froze.

“Relax, Marian,” said Aveline, taking on the soothing tone she'd used with her husband. It was only days ago, though it seemed like ages. “I'm not going to hit you over an innocent touch.”

Marian laid still, hardly breathing. Having another person so physically close, with no armor and no blades between them, was alarming and uncomfortable. The tide of exhaustion threatened to pull these feelings under, but Marian clung to them stubbornly.

Aveline sighed. “Listen to my breath.” Her chest pressed gently to Marian's shoulder, rising and falling as she breathed steadily. “It'll help; I promise.”

No matter her reluctance, Marian was too tired to protest for long. She did as Aveline bid her. _Inhale, exhale. Listen._ Slowly, the tension in her muscles eased. She sank into the mattress, unable to help a soft whimper. She had not slept in _ages_.

“Ssh,” said Aveline, “that's it. Sleep.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Marian obeyed.

***

Bethany did not protest to have two warriors join them on the long voyage; Leandra said nothing. If the woman had spoken a word since their arrival in Gwaren, Marian had not heard it.

Leandra did not speak on the ship either, while Bethany did nothing but.

Marian slept on Aveline's shoulder, curling up for warmth and comfort. It was surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to, and Marian found herself grateful to have something strong to lean on after abandoning everything she had known. She also fulfilled this role for Aveline, holding her close when she muttered Wesley's name in her sleep, urging her to breathe steadily and be calm.

The two women bolstered each other, and it was not long before Marian came to believe that she would have surely gone mad without that anchor. She still dithered over whether running into the last of what she could possibly call family had been the Maker's doing (as by all evidence, it had only taken her further from Him), but meeting Aveline had surely been His work.

The Maker saw two women who had lost too much and saw fit to give them each other. If she lived a hundred years, Marian could never repay Him; but that would not keep her from trying every day 'til then.

***

They docked in Kirkwall to find the Gallows filled to the brim with refugees. Unwashed bodies crowded the docks, and Marian took Bethany's arm to keep her close.

She and Aveline had agreed to see Bethany and Leandra safely into Kirkwall. Leandra was growing in years, and though Bethany was capable, she could not offer protection without endangering herself further. For all that Marian and Aveline were shrewd, taciturn women, they were both protectors. Neither of them had the means or position to provide for all the refugees pouring out of Ferelden, but it was the very least they could so to deliver these two women to their new home.

Marian quickly sussed out the man in charge, leading their party further into the Gallows. As they approached, she glanced at Aveline, who nodded.

Though they hadn't known each other long, both women had an understanding of battle strategy. They'd play to their strengths. Marian would do her best to convince with words; if anyone needed strong-arming, Aveline was at the ready.

Marian was not entirely surprised that the conversation turned to an actual battle. For her part, she was grateful that it was riffraff they were forced to fight rather than city officials. She was willing to bet Kirkwall was too full to bother making room for her in a prison cell.

Captain Ewald seemed tired but wary, and he took note of Aveline and Marian's shields with no small amount of suspicion. “You wield the insignia of templars,” he noted. “Are you with the Order?”

“We are the widows of templars that perished in the Blight,” said Marian, hoping Aveline would forgive her for the nature of the lie. “We fought for King Cailan; now he is dead, and we fight for ourselves.”

“If you're not templars,” he sighed, “I can't let you in.”

“We do not wish to enter the city,” said Marian. She gestured to Bethany and Leandra. “We are here to see these women to their family, who reside within.”

The captain nodded. “If they do legitimately have family here, then I can contact them. But I'm afraid you two are out of luck either way. Transport farther inland is full up for weeks, unless you want to walk by yourselves.” He gave them a pointed look. “Soldiers you may be, but you are only two, and there are more bandits than usual on the roads, taking advantage of the victims of this Blight.”

“We'll manage,” said Marian with steel in her voice.

***

“You could come with us.”

Marian turned to Bethany, puzzled by this outburst, as well as the words themselves. In the three days they'd spent in the Kirkwall Gallows waiting for Leandra's brother to appear, Bethany seemed to have finally run out of things to say. But here she was now, tentative yet earnest, making good use of her talent for startling Marian into silence.

In the last three days, Aveline and Marian had done their best to make plans for departure, though their efforts were all for naught. Even if they did intend to journey entirely on their own, city officials were charged with keeping the roads to and from Kirkwall under watch. They only allowed a certain number to depart each day, and their party was very far behind in the queue.

When Marian did not respond, Bethany took her hand. “You've done so much for us. You must allow us to repay you.”

“That will not be necessary,” started Marian, but Bethany shifted anxiously and cut her off.

“If not for you and Aveline, we would never have made it to Gwaren.”

“Your own abilities were no small help,” said Aveline.

Bethany shook her head, looking annoyed now. “Stop it, you two,” she said in a sharp tone. “I know you're tough, independent women, but shut up for a minute.” She took a breath, looking almost sheepish as she continued, “Maker knows the two of you will get on just fine if you choose to leave--honestly, I can almost feel sorry for those bandits--but you can at least let us provide you lodging until you leave. We've an estate. You needn't spend weeks in this pit while you wait to depart.”

“The guard will not allow us in,” Marian reminded her.

“We've coin to our name,” said Bethany, looking to her mother, who offered nothing. “We can pay your way in.”

“It is not worth your trouble or coin for such a short time,” Marian insisted. “Aveline and I will be just fine; I promise you.”

Bethany's hand reached for her face. “But you're my _sister_.”

“The templar is no daughter of mine,” said Leandra then, her voice hoarse from lack of use. Bethany fell silent, and Marian met Leandra's hard gaze. A tense moment passed before she added, “But you are a Hawke.”

The rest of the party was silent. Marian, for herself, had not the slightest clue what to say to such a thing, or whether she should say anything at all. Leandra wetted her lips, swallowed, and went on.

“We have so little left. In times of trial, we must cleave to family.” She glanced at Aveline. “And to friends.”

With that, Leandra turned her back and said nothing more.

Marian turned to Aveline, but this was a decision that could not be made in a single look. Moreover, she owed Aveline an explanation. She squeezed Bethany's hand lightly. “We will discuss the matter,” she promised.

***

Aveline followed her out to the docks. They leaned against a vacant spot of fencing, and immediately Aveline said, “You're a liar, Marian.”

“I never lied,” said Marian. Speaking literally, she hadn't; but of course Aveline did not see it that way.

“You did.” She had the tone of a woman who thought herself indisputably correct. “I don't like liars.”

With a heavy sigh, Marian turned to face her accuser. “I should've told you the truth,” she admitted. “I did not do so because of Ser Wesley.” Marian regretted the way Aveline flinched at her husband's name but pressed on. “I wanted to protect Bethany. It required breaking my vows to ensure her safety, but... she is all the family I have left.”

Aveline's thin lips twitched. Though clearly unsatisfied by the response, she only asked, “Do we stay?”

“Do you want to?” countered Marian.

“It does not matter to me.” The soldier looked down, her pale hands gripping the fence tightly. “We have no home. If you choose to make one here, then so will I.” Aveline leveled her with a resolute stare and said, “I go with you, Marian.”

A strange warmth filled Marian's belly at this display of loyalty. Though the words felt woefully inadequate, she said to Aveline, “I will do my best to prove myself worthy of your faith.”

“I know you will,” said Aveline with bracing confidence, “and that is why you have it.”

***

When it turned out that there was no estate and no family fortune, Marian found herself unsurprised. Something about the way that Captain Ewald had reacted upon learning Gamlen's name had already tipped her off that all was not as well as they'd hoped.

Bethany had gone the optimist's route, and Marian watched the news crush her already battered spirit. She found her hands had balled into fists and had to take a deep breath before releasing them.

That indentured servitude was their very last hope did nothing to console Bethany, and she and Leandra held to each other tightly. Marian approached Gamlen, her stance just shy of a threat. Aveline backed her up. Gamlen startled, then sneered at them.

“And how did Leandra manage to convince the two of you to aid in her plight?” he asked, and though he made to sound as though he did not care for the answer, Marian believed otherwise. Gamlen crossed his arms. “I know she doesn't have the coin to pay you, else she wouldn't need to _resort_ to asking for my help.”

“Leandra and Bethany are under my protection. If their entrance into the city incurs a price, then I will pay it.”

“And I,” added Aveline.

“That I will not allow,” said Marian, steeling herself for what would come next. She met Aveline's eyes. “If I am to sully myself for this debt, I will not see your honor fall with mine.”

“Do not ask me to leave you, Marian.”

Aveline's tone gave her chills, but Marian jutted her chin out firmly. “I would never,” she pledged, and turned back to Gamlen. “My service will pay for the three of them.”

Gamlen snorted. “For all your chivalry, girl, you sure are naïve.”

“Tell me who I must speak with,” said Marian stubbornly, cutting off the rest of his remark, “and they will be convinced.”

***

She went to see the elf alone. Aveline looked ready to kill while Bethany protested tearily. Marian let them be and set off.

“Athenril, I presume?” she asked upon approaching the elf. She noted how the men at her side twitched for their weapons, and how a single raised hand from Athenril dissuaded them.

The elf regarded her curiously. “You don't have the look of a mage,” she said, peering at Gamlen and the rest across the courtyard.

“Indeed I do not,” Marian agreed. “I am here to negotiate for the mage's entrance into the city, as well as that of her mother, her friend, and myself.”

“And the list of people asking for my help just keeps getting longer,” sighed Athenril. “Look, I'm not a saint. I was promised a mage. I'm willing to pay for her and her mother in exchange for a year of employment; that was the deal.”

“May I ask what tasks you had in mind for the mage? What role she'd fill in your operation?”

Athenril shrugged a shoulder coolly. “Assurance. Protection. A little fear-mongering. What's it to you?”

“I believe I can perform these tasks more effectively than the mage. I am a trained soldier; Bethany, while capable, has spent her life hiding her magic from templars. She has not had formal training.” Marian listed the rest of her half-formed thoughts point by point. “Apostate mages are rebellious sorts while a soldier follows orders. Magic is less reliable than a blade. As for fear-mongering? Perhaps the name 'mage' will cow your enemies, but what will happen when they look upon her?”

The elf's jaw shifted as she took another look at Bethany, who was sobbing in her mother's arms. “You make some good points,” Athenril conceded, “but four people means twice as much coin as I planned on paying.”

“Then cut my wages in half.”

Athenril's brow lifted. “You won't be able to live on that,” she said, a warning in her tone.

“I'm resourceful.”

“I don't think you understand.” The elf gave a patronizing chuckle. “With a wage like that, you'll have to squat in Darktown for the entire year, and you'll still just _barely_ be able to feed yourself. It'll be more miserable than you can imagine.”

Marian tilted her head. “You're an honest woman,” she said appreciatively.

“Well, I want you to know what you're getting into so you don't come crying to me when you can't afford to polish your shiny blade.”

“Clean or sullied, it'll cut your enemies the same.”

The elf considered her again and said, “Well, you've got spirit,” in a tone that suggested this was not a compliment. “Noble soul like yours isn't gonna have a problem getting her hands dirty?”

Here Marian paused. She looked at Athenril dead-on, holding her gaze. She knew that these words were her last chance at preserving the safety and honor of those she had sworn to protect, and she forced all her conviction, all her will and faith into them.

“I will do what must be done.”

***

In her year with Athenril, Marian made connections deep within Kirkwall's underbelly, fouling hands once pledged to uphold divine order. She broke the laws of men and the Maker, and every prayer she offered Him rent her soul. Only He and Marian knew how it made her ache, for she would let no other see. The cost was terribly high, but she paid without complaint.

With her swift sword and relentless will, she bought fear and respect. In her endless months of illicit dealings and illegal trade, she made a name for herself in the pit of Kirkwall's criminal arena, but that name was not Ser Marian Arathas of the Templar Order, keeper of peace and holy law.

That name was Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Aveline's a bit different than canon Aveline. She has a meaner bitchface, but a slightly shorter stick up her ass. And she likes cuddles <3


	3. Smuggler

Sunrise found Marian in the chantry courtyard, poised at the bottom of a staircase that led to an imposing building which severed the skyline, trying and failing to summon enough will to take a step.

She'd come such a long way. And that was not to speak of the lengthy walk from her hovel in the Undercity, but rather the war waged in her mind over these last six months.

She had not stepped foot in Kirkwall's chantry since her arrival. The last time Marian had stood on holy ground, it was in Lothering. And she'd _looted_ it. Taken food, potions, and vials of blasted, blessed lyrium. Provisions stolen from a holy place and used to facilitate the escape of an apostate mage.

Marian did not know exactly when she'd stopped being a templar, but it was long before then. A templar would not have lied to protect a mage she did not even know. A templar would have had the sense to turn back when her companion was killed, not slashed through Lothering in a whirl of vengeance and hunger, promising death with every swing of her blade, bash from her shield, smite called down from the heavens.

She did not deserve the shield that hung at her back, its flaming templar insignia burning holes in her fragile state of mind each time she took it on her arm, but she had kept it. The decision was selfish; one made for utility, without regard toward what the Maker or the Order she had served would think of it. Marian was trained with a shield; this one was sturdy and reliable, and she had not yet found one of similar construction to exchange it for.

And this blasphemy did not even begin to cover her innumerable sins before the Maker. She'd kept track of them, in the beginning, made them into a list for confession whenever she found the time to make it to the chapel. But it had grown too long, and she could not remember them all, and she did not deserve even to gaze upon the Maker's house.

As she had done so many times before, Marian turned from the chantry and headed out of Hightown. She did not look back.

***

Marian's duties for the day began with delivering poisons. Compared to her usual activities, it was downright innocuous.

Her career as a smuggler begun with mundane, even (more or less) _legal_ tasks until Athenril trusted her with anything more daring than standing watch at a storehouse. Now she transported goods to and from the Undercity, usually on her own, since large groups tended to attract the attention of Darktown's more notorious gangs.

She approached a stall that belonged to a haggard elf, who just now dealt with a large balding man. The elf noticed her from the corner of his eye and nodded.

“Hawke.”

“Tomwise.”

The elf finished his transaction, sending the customer off with one last reminder of the correct dosage. He watched the man go, then turned to Marian with a roll of his eyes.

“They never do listen about dosages,” he said as he readied a parcel of potions. His next words were an affected mutter, pitched low and long in a decent imitation of a Darktown accent. “Well if I'm just s'posed to use one dropperful, don't ya reckon the whole bottle'll make 'em even more dead?” He huffed a mirthless laugh, his voice returning to its usual cadence. “And when bodily fluids spew in their face, they come crying to me.”

Marian pursed her lips, saying nothing. Tomwise glanced up at her, rolling his eyes before continuing with his prattle.

“Usually the stupid ones take care of themselves,” he went on, “but that _noble_ healer with the free clinic is determined to keep them from learning their lesson properly.” He shook his head, handing her the full parcel. “Does us more harm than good, I'm telling you.”

“Is the healer not an honorable man for providing his services so freely?” asked Marian, because her stubborn ideals would not allow the comment to pass unchallenged.

Tomwise smirked and said, “I reckon he's more honorable than a smuggler.”

Marian raised her chin. “Fair enough,” she conceded, securing the parcel. “Thank you, Tomwise.”

“Hey,” he added as she turned to leave, “tell Athenril I don't want Hodge delivering the payment this time. Word is he slept with some Carta thug's repulsive wife. True or not, the rumor alone will get him killed, and I want my coin _on time_.”

“Tell her yourself,” said Marian over her shoulder.

“You know, you're pretty fucking useless for a courier! No-good shem.”

Marian turned around to make a derogatory gesture for elf, a tiny smirk on her face as Tomwise started on a fresh round of insults.

***

She did not take the same route with each package, but Marian had a few that she stuck to. It would have taken years to discover every twist and turn in the tunnels of the Undercity, so Marian had instead acquainted herself with a small working area. It included several hovels she took shelter in, discreet hiding places for her lyrium stores, and a few stalls Athenril supplied.

It didn't have the safety or comfort of a home, but it was familiar.

The route she took today was a longer one. Marian had a meeting with Athenril in the afternoon, but her morning was free. She spent it weaving through thugs and refugees and the Undercity's thin layer of fog with the parcel of poisons on her hip.

Marian was no rogue, and she did not stick to shadows or hide her intent. She walked the streets in full armor with a sword at her back. Anyone that tried to stop her met her unpolished blade.

Halfway through the route, Marian became aware of eyes on her. She had decent visibility but couldn't perform a thorough check of her surroundings without being obvious, and she was certainly _not_ going to remove her helm.

Marian diverted from her usual path, making a few sharp turns. This took her to an area she did not know quite as well, but she recalled a few strategic locations she'd marked mentally. Marian's plan was not to escape, for most of the thugs that intercepted such deliveries moved much faster than she did. She would make a stand.

An arrow flew wide past her shoulder. Marian drew her weapon, and the battle began.

She didn't see the rogue until he was on top of her. Even then, he almost managed to wedge a dagger in between her plates before she slammed her shield against his unprotected skull. As his lifeless body collapsed, something shattered at her feet, and Marian's vision was filled with thick white fog.

It would've been an effective tactic, were Marian not well-acquainted with the Coterie's preferred tactics. Their rogues had been turning the same tricks for too long.

Rather than try to escape the smoke, Marian stood in the center of it. It was infused with a small concentration of poison, enough to make her eyes sting and her throat burn, but there would be no lasting damage that a good healing potion couldn't cure. It was better to stand still and brace for the attack she knew would come, rather than flail and let them catch her off-balance.

Sure enough, she heard the blade slide against the armor at her back—it did not find its target, and Marian had the rogue's own tactics to thank for that. Anything that hampered her visibility did the same to the assassins who were forced to get close in order to use their short blades.

Marian swung at the assassin, who managed to slip out of reach. She lunged forward after him, catching his side with her blade but failing to penetrate his armor. He ducked under her shield arm, attempting to disappear into the cloud of smoke that was quickly dissipating, but one powerful bash knocked him off his feet. Marian plunged her sword into his chest.

The next rogue was a woman who tried to knock Marian off-balance with a kick and ended up with a long gash in her side. She fled, stumbling, while another of her companions used the distraction to stick a blade beneath Marian's armor, finding flesh—he evaded the powerful swing of her shield and slithered into the shadows.

She took the brief window to lunge forward and finish off the woman. The rogue had just downed a healing potion when Marian's blade ripped through her abdomen. There was no healing from that.

Another blade met her already wounded back, and Marian grunted in pain. She staggered enough that the rogue was able to roll out of the way of her next attack. She was just preparing another strike when an arrow caught her shoulder—the first of them to penetrate her armor—and unbalanced her swing.

Her swipe at the rogue was sloppy, but she managed to wound him. He scrambled to get behind her again, but Marian leapt and slammed his body to the ground with her shield. No more rogues moved among the shadows, and the archers ran.

The archers always ran.

Marian lifted her arms to remove her helm, hissing in pain. Her fingers found the catch easily, and she pulled the heavy thing off, letting it clatter to the ground. She fumbled with the potion, muttering prayers under her breath, and at last managed to lift a flask of healing potion to her lips.

She sighed in relief as the pain ebbed. Ignoring her audience, Marian checked the parcel to find that the poisons were all intact. But something was still bothering her, an odd tingling in her skull. Perhaps the lingering effects of the smoke, or the start of a headache...

Marian's head snapped up, suddenly alert. _Magic._

It had been such a long time since she'd sensed it. She quickly determined that the magical presence was not one she'd felt before; it was foreign, the work of an unknown mage. _An apostate. Maleficar._

Marian had fastened her helm and was standing outside a dirty hovel with a smite at her fingertips when she remembered that it was no longer her duty to capture apostates. It hadn't been her duty for several months now, and she was under no obligation to bring this or any mage to the Circle.

Still, Marian did not move.

The stream of magic tapered out. Voices came from inside the shack, and at the open door appeared a man in feathered robes, blonde hair half-tied back with an elastic band.

“The healer,” Marian said aloud, making the connection just as the words left her mouth.

He looked her up and down, taking in her full parcel and the arrow still in her shoulder, and frowned. “I don't serve thugs,” he said with a sanctimonious shake of the head. He gestured out the door. “Leave this place.”

“You're a mage.” She was too dumbstruck to say anything else.

“Yet you remain in my doorway.” The mage brandished his staff; Marian's eyes shifted to it before returning to its wielder. Anger lined his tired face, at odds with the purplish bruises under his eyes. “Not the wisest course of action, I assure you.”

She ought to smite the smug bastard while she still had the chance, drag him off to the Gallows where he'd be watched with the rest of the Circle mages to make sure they caused no harm to the innocent. Even if she wasn't a templar anymore, it was the right thing to do. Mages were dangerous; the damage just one could do was reason enough to keep a vigilant watch on them all.

 _Hypocrite,_ accused a dark, hateful voice inside her. _You let Bethany go._

Bethany who, for all her unerring kindness and strong sense of morality, was still a mage. Still should've been captured and taken to the Circle. But Marian  _helped_ her escape, lied for her and betrayed the Order she'd sworn to uphold. That was the final nail in her coffin, and Ser Marian was long buried.

She could feel the shift in the air; the apostate was preparing to cast. She took a step back, then another. “I'm sorry to have bothered you,” she said, forgetting to be apathetic and cocksure. Forgetting that she was Hawke the Smuggler, and she didn't apologize for anything. She certainly didn't say, “Maker be with you, mage,” and close her fist over her chest before turning _away_ from a confrontation.

Marian departed the clinic and headed for the exit to Lowtown, head still spinning. Twenty paces later, she remembered there was an arrow in her shoulder.

***

“I hear you had a little trouble with the Coterie this morning,” said Athenril.

Her face showed no sign of interest, but Marian knew the elf well enough to recognize the lilt in her tone. Marian shrugged, her armor pinging lightly with the motion.

“I'm alive. They're not.”

“I can see that.” Athenril's voice was flat. She placed a hand on her hip and started to pick out the dirt from underneath her fingernails; a nervous tic. “You've been in Darktown awhile,” she said. When Marian didn't respond, she looked up. “Usually it doesn't take the Coterie this long to start harassing my couriers.”

Marian paused, her brow furrowing as she asked, “Were you waiting for them to harass me?”

The elf shrugged. “I was curious to see how long you'd last. I have to admit, Hawke...” This admittance cause her to frown. “You've surprised me.” Marian said nothing, though evidently she was supposed to, if Athenril's increasing annoyance was anything to judge by. “I'm not easily surprised. It's even less often that I'm _pleasantly_ surprised.”

Still, Marian said nothing.

“Dammit, Hawke,” said Athenril, losing her cool composure at last. Frustration showed in her puckered brow and the lopsided twist of her mouth. “I'm paying you a compliment.”

“Thank you,” said Marian mechanically.

Athenril frowned and said, “I know this line of work doesn't thrill you, but you're good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, if you would actually _talk_ , I might have another position available that'll get you out of the Undercity,” said the elf. She placed her hands on her narrow hips. “You talked me into letting you and your little friends into this city. I figured if you could manage that, you might be worth more to me than a common sellsword. _That_ was why I took your offer.”

“Have I not proved myself more than competent in the task you assigned to me?” asked Marian in a clipped tone. “Are you not satisfied with my performance?”

A bony finger poked her breastplate. “I'm not satisfied because I know you can do better. I saw it the first time I met you, and now everyone's talking about the way you handed the Coterie their worthless asses today.” The elf stopped, pursing her lips. She was apparently trying to calm herself, but her tone was still sharp with frustration as she added, “I am _trying_ to do you a favor by giving you a leg up in this shithole of a city, and you're throwing it back in my face because you're too self-righteous to see sense.”

“The terms of our deal-”

“I _know_ the terms of our deal!” Athenril gave her a hard shove. “Go back to Darktown, then, you stubborn little shit--but don't say I never tried to do anything for you.”

***

Marian didn't go back to Darktown. She went to see Aveline.

She shouldn't have. Her types weren't welcome in the Keep, and consorting with thugs did no favors for Aveline's career. Still, she went. Perhaps it was selfish, but she knew Aveline would not turn her away.

Aveline's patrols had been a little scattered lately, but Marian was lucky enough to find her in the barracks. The other guardsmen eyed her warily. She was not particularly well-known to their ranks due to the fact that she kept mostly to Darktown, where there were no patrols, but she recognized a few faces that Athenril had pointed out. She took care to steer clear of them, and her helm remained firmly attached.

The guardsman she sought was reading quietly, clad in a set of shiny armor. It occurred to Marian that she had not seen Aveline out of her armor since she joined the city guard. A blush leapt to her cheeks. It wasn't as if she _fantasized_ about Aveline freed of all the bulky metal, her orange hair hanging loosely over a fitted tunic...

_Maker's breath._

She cleared her throat and approached Aveline, who glanced up and said, “Marian,” in a short tone before returning to her book.

Marian sighed. “I probably deserve that,” she said, believing it.

“You do,” agreed Aveline.

“That and more.”

“I hope you're not about to grovel.”

She couldn't help a small smile. “I will if you make me.”

Aveline snorted and said, “I can't _make_ you do anything.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “If I could, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?”

“Oh, _Aveline-_ ”

“Don't do that,” the guardsman interrupted shortly.

A shrug shifted Marian's noisy armor. “Then what would you like me to do, Aveline?” She huffed with mirth as she said, “I'll dance for you. Serenade you, if you like.”

“You could try shutting up,” suggested Aveline. “You're good at that.”

Marian sighed. Perhaps she should've been frustrated by Aveline's stubbornness, but fool that she was, she found it endearing. Aveline had _missed_ her. That was more comforting than she could bear, and the sudden wave of emotion built pressure behind her eyes. She blinked it away, taking a breath.

She undid the clasps on her helm, tucking it at her hip, and promptly fell to her knees. Her greaves clanged against the floor, silencing the room and even the corridor outside. Aveline's expression twinged with shock before revealing the full force of her green glare.

“Oh dearest Aveline, heart of my heart-” started Marian, only to be cut off by a harsh jerk to her arm. Aveline unceremoniously pulled her to her feet and shoved her out the door. All the while, Marian grinned like a fool.

The spell of silence that had fallen over the barracks broke as they entered the corridor and someone whooped. Soon there was laughter and chatting again, but Aveline continued to shove Marian.

“You ass,” she hissed once they were clear of the barracks, thumping her companion noisily on the back. “I have to _live_ here.”

Marian peered at her, catching just a hint of a smile. “You didn't even let me finish,” she said, faking hurt. “It was good, too.”

Aveline turned her face to hide her grin and said, “You were talking out of your ass, as per usual. If I hadn't hauled you off, you'd still be sitting there like a fool with nothing to say.” She schooled her expression as she turned back to Marian and said coolly, “You're welcome.”

“Well, I'll have to do something nice to thank you.”

“Meet me at the docks in an hour.” Her glare returned. “And do show up this time.”

With that, she turned sharply and marched back to the barracks, leaving Marian alone in the Keep. She stood there a moment, her pulse thrumming happily. Good humor was rare enough these days, and Marian wanted to savor it.

The rustle of armor alerted her to an approaching guard, and Marian quickly secured her helm and made for the exit. The guard let her go--he was only chasing out the unwanted riffraff. Marian's spirits fell, and despair settled once more into her weary bones. She hadn't realized how heavy a burden it was.

***

She met Aveline at their usual place on the docks, as promised, but it was clear they were not staying. As soon as her searching green eyes found Marian, Aveline started briskly for her position.

“Hurry now,” said Aveline, hands gripping Marian's shoulders as she turned her around. She didn't stop for a minute, and Marian shuffled quickly to catch up. “Don't want to be late.”

“Late for what?”

Aveline glanced at her, and there was a certain wariness to the look. “There's a service at the chantry tonight.”

Marian halted, dread filling her limbs. Aveline's gauntleted hands fell on her shoulders.

“It's been six months, Marian. We've done enough hiding.”

“I can't,” said Marian.

_Maker, forgive me. I cannot turn my face to Your light._

The cool touch of metal lifted her chin until she was staring into Aveline's eyes. “I am not asking,” she said firmly.

Arms linked, she pulled Marian all the way to the chantry courtyard in tense silence.

***

Aveline tightened her grip on Marian's arm as they approached the steps; as she looked up, Marian saw why. Bethany and Leandra waited for them. She tried to pull away on instinct, but Aveline's hold would not give. Wearily, she surrendered.

Bethany looked every bit as though keeping her arms at her sides instead of throwing them around her sister took all the self-restraint she possessed. Her forehead creased with the effort, and the naked concern in her face brought a blush to Marian's cheeks. She ducked to hide her face, though it was still covered by her helm.

The helm which Aveline now removed, without meeting protest. Marian had spent the entire walk contemplating how to get herself out of this, but for all that she insisted on such lengthy metal battles, the truth was that Marian was so unbelievably tired of fighting herself. Aveline made it easy to simply go along.

She climbed the steps and passed inside, head bowed in resignation. She kept her eyes on the ground, shuffling forward as quietly as possible. She could feel Andraste's eyes boring through her, seeing who she was and all the things she'd been. There was nowhere left to hide.

And Marian had been hiding. How foolish, to think one could hide from the Maker of all things. Marian had tried her hand at ignorance, had given it her best go, and she now had to admit that she was honestly and truly terrible at it. She'd been running from the Maker since Kinloch Hold, and only now did she notice that for all her sweat and aching legs, she hadn't moved at all.

As the chant echoed through the gilded halls, Marian whispered the quiet prayers that she'd held in since the first of so many ill-advised decisions in Ferelden. Looking at Bethany now--dear, sweet Bethany, grasping her hand too tightly, doing her damnedest to smile through thick lines of tears--she could not say that all of them had been mistakes.

She said her prayers for Ser Stratton, his light extinguished by insatiable darkness; for the citizens of Lothering, most of them at the Maker's side; for Ser Cullen, who had lied to protect her; for Aveline, who'd forced her to face herself; for Bethany, who gave her something sacred to protect; and for the Hero of Ferelden, the damned mage who'd finished the Blight and started so much more.

Marian did not expect her prayers to be answered. Perhaps the Maker was not even listening, having forsaken her the way she forsook her holy vows. But she knew now--and could not say how she knew, save for the feeling of peace and warmth that descended on her when she had the thought--that she could no longer allow guilt to keep her from serving the Maker. She saw that her lack of worthiness only increased her debt to him, and in the quiet halls of the chantry, she swore to dedicate time each day to repaying it.

From that moment on, every drop of blood spilled by Marian's hand only strengthened her conviction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have fudged the timeline a bit to have Anders already in Kirkwall at this point, but hell, I'm running with it.


	4. Sister

Her voice was a low murmur, the words calm and sure on her lips. “Maker, guide my path,” she pled, prostrate before the golden image of Andraste. “My hands are Your hands; they clasp in prayer, relieve the weary, and form a fist in Your name. Guide them to protect and deliver Your children from evil.”

“Such a lovely prayer, sweet child,” a gentle voice intervened. Marian lifted her head, and the Grand Cleric continued, “You have a voice for the Chant.”

Marian rose to her full height, bowing her head in respect. “I am humbled, Your Grace.”

Elthina smiled softly. She considered the statue of Andraste with reverence; Marian did the same, waiting for her to speak. “Has the Maker revealed your path to you?” she inquired at last.

“I still await his guidance,” said Marian.

“Perhaps,” said Elthina, turning to her, “there has been enough waiting.” Marian's brow furrowed. Elthina smiled again before elaborating, “Perhaps it is time to take a more active role. To search.”

A frown marked Marian's lips. “I have searched, Your Grace.”

“You have prayed with fervor and patience,” the Grand Cleric agreed, “as is righteous and prudent. I do not doubt your dedication.” She placed a hand on Marian's shoulder. “But not every question can be answered from within these walls.”

“What are you saying?” asked Marian, her tone just a touch too curt. She loathed the Grand Cleric's riddles, all leading questions and pointed looks. There was meaning behind each word, but Marian could never quite guess what it was. No matter how she responded, she always got it wrong.

The woman's sad but patient look only irked her further. “I would not accuse you of anything, child.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Sister Marian,” said Elthina, and the gentleness in her tone made Marian grit her teeth, “you may wear Chantry robes, but you never do remove your armor. Your shield guards you from your enemies, but do not forget that it hinders other things, too.”

Marian sighed shortly. Her jaw locked into place, her eyes fixed firmly on the statue. From beside her, Elthina shook her head.

“You'll never find your answer that way, my dear.”

***

There were just three days left in Athenril's contract. Marian's career as a smuggler was almost over, if she wanted it to be.

Athenril had offered to increase her wages substantially if she remained. There would be no more scrounging for scraps, relying on the Chantry's hospitality. She could buy Bethany and Leandra some proper food, and clothes without any patches. In time, she may even get them out of that hovel in Lowtown, move them somewhere safer.

But if Athenril raised her wage, she would also expect more out of Marian. To the elf's great resentment, Marian had managed to wriggle her way out of many of the less-than-honorable tasks her job required. Athenril tolerated this, as Marian proved herself to be capable and reliable, but her patience was wearing thin. She would not allow Marian to continue this way, and she'd made it perfectly clear.

If she chose to remain a part of Kirkwall's underworld scene, Marian feared that she would be forced to give up her work as an affirmed sister. The name 'Hawke' had spread from Darktown to other sectors of Kirkwall, and the Chantry would not offer safety much longer. It would be all too easy for an assassin to slip in while she was scrubbing floors or tending to the wounded in her flimsy robes, unarmed and unprotected. Once her presence was discovered, it would put everyone around her in danger; it was selfish to take advantage of their hospitality and risk their safety.

The only way to remain with the Chantry was to give up that life. She could take her vows and spend the rest of her life as Sister Marian, laying Hawke to rest. She'd lead the Chant and take confessions, provide succor to the Maker's children as His dedicated servant. She could not be a templar again, lest her disaffection be discovered; but as an initiate, she could hide herself with robes and mediocrity. She would not be expected to achieve any great heights, and thus she would not know failure.

But what of Bethany? What of Leandra? Even Aveline, who stubbornly pretended not to need her, would never forgive her for this. She could deny it all she liked—and she did, with feeling—but Marian knew that she was hiding behind her faith, and she knew exactly what Aveline would have to say about it.

For years, Marian's faith had been her shield. But it was no longer strict and immovable; it was pliable, like clay, and it changed with her. It belonged uniquely to her, not to the Chantry, and she could not in good conscience swear herself to their rules and doctrines knowing that her beliefs and theirs were no longer one and the same.

The peace she'd felt within these hallowed halls would remain with her for a lifetime, but her days as Sister had to end. She was still the Maker's daughter—and His servant, if He would have her—but she could not tarry in His house. She had other work.

She only hoped that the Maker would reveal it, and soon, lest she stumble down the wrong path by mistake.

***

Marian dipped another bandage into the healing poultice, coating it thoroughly, her mind on other things. She was too preoccupied to notice that her fingertips were starting to go numb. She rolled and packaged the finished strip, blindly reaching for another only to discover that the stack had vanished.

This was enough to bring her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the chair on the other side of the worktable, only to find it empty. A quick look over the room revealed that its intended occupant was instead standing next to one of the small cots that lined the walls, bending down to check a fever.

Marian's mouth twisted with sympathy. She brushed her fingers against the stained smock that covered her robes, rising as a pained cough came from the far end of the room. She hovered next to her chair for a moment before nodding once to herself and crossing to her easily-distracted companion.

“Brother Sebastian,” she said gently, a few paces behind him. She meant to continue, but as he turned and revealed the look of pain in his eyes, the words caught in her throat.

He smiled weakly. “You've caught up to me, I see,” he said, clasping his hands. “I thought I could steal away for a moment. You seemed distracted.”

Marian ducked her head. She was hardly in a place to be criticizing him for lack of dedication. She nodded the man on the cot. “Do you know him?”

“Not well,” he admitted. The ghost of something crossed his face, but it was gone before she could place it. “I've seen him at services here and there, and I took his confession once. Not a devout man, but I believe he was trying.”

“I pray for his recovery,” she said politely.

Sebastian's mouth twisted, a wistful quality to it. “As do I, though the healers are not hopeful.”

“I am sorry.”

His gaze returned to the man. He placed a hand on the large, balding head. “His fever's gone up again. I fear he won't last the night like this.” His mouth tensed. He let his hand fall, and when he spoke again, his voice had gone rough. “I'll never understand it.”

Marian did not know what to say, but she reached forward and placed a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. When he looked at her, he seemed to be searching for something. He must have found it, for he continued, “How does the Maker decide who to take? Is each death nothing more than another chapter in His plan for this world?”

She felt so out of place every time someone gave her that searching look, as if her words could heal wounds. _Maker, let Your gentle touch guide these hands,_ she prayed.

“Some things are not for us to understand. We must have faith that the Maker will see us through whatever trials He sees fit to thrust upon us.”

“I _have_ faith,” he said bitterly, and Marian almost jumped at his tone. He turned back to the man on the cot, his words coming quickly. “I pray every day. I sacrifice the indulgences of this life to serve the Maker. I have pledged myself to His will. What more can I do?”

“The Maker does not always answer our faith in the ways we expect.”

He laughed, though the sound held no mirth. “That is what the Grand Cleric said.”

“She is a wise woman,” said Marian. She pursed her lips against any other comment and was surprised when Sebastian voiced her thoughts for her.

“Wise, perhaps, but rarely practical.”

Marian couldn't help a small smile. “I don't know the last time metaphors and platitudes actually solved anyone's problems, but I doubt it was in this age.”

Sebastian turned to her sharply, and her hand dropped from his shoulder. His piercing blue eyes seemed to hold something terribly private, something not meant to be seen--at least not by Marian, who could do nothing about it but repeat all the right words and hope that he was able to find some meaning in them that she could not. She looked away.

“Tell me something, Marian.”

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. “What?” she prompted.

“Something,” he repeated. His voice was pleading. “Anything. If words don't make it better, then what does?”

Her words did not come with haste, but he waited for them. Waited as she unstuck her tongue, rolled the words in her mouth, tried to decide if they were even worth saying. She never came to a conclusion, but she said them anyway because it was all she could do.

“I lost a brother to the Blight,” she started quietly. She met his eyes; despite the itch to turn away, she held them for as long as she spoke. “I killed a hundred darkspawn that day. It didn't bring him back, but for a moment, it felt as if I had some measure of control over fate. That helped.”

He swallowed something heavy. “Vengeance brought you peace?”

“No,” answered Marian, “but it was close enough.”

Sebastian nodded slowly, stiffly, before he turned and abruptly left the room. Marian watched him go, unsure whether she'd said something wrong or something right. She returned to her duties, working in double time to finish hers and Sebastian's. He did not return.

***

“Marian. Psst. _Marian._ ”

Marian clenched her jaw, exhaling through her nose as she turned to face the disturbance. Several worshippers in the pew had taken note, and their expressions ranged from curious to offended. Marian jerked her head at the Chanter, trying to look stern. Bethany pouted.

With another short sigh, Marian rose. She murmured apologies as she wove through the pew, as did Bethany from the row behind her. Marian didn't look back until they were concealed behind a pillar, and she turned her best reproachful look on her sister.

“I know, I know,” started Bethany, placing her hands on Marian's shoulders. “I'm the worst sister, and I'm reckless and stupid, and you should've left me to the darkspawn--but you're going to be very glad you didn't once you get a look at what I found on the Chanter's board.”

Bethany removed a scrap of parchment from her bodice and thrust it at Marian, grinning like a fool. Marian pursed her lips, glaring for another moment before she relented. As she scanned the written words, a line appeared between her brows.

“A bounty on mercenaries?” She frowned. “I can't believe Her Grace allowed this.”

“She _didn't_ ,” said Bethany, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement as she told the story. “Alright, listen: So there was this gorgeous bloke trying to pin this on the board, and Elthina was there, all cross. They were having a row about it, I think, but I wasn't close enough to hear. So Elthina tears it down _but_ the bloke turns around, right? And _shoots an arrow through it._ ” Bethany gestured with her hands, her eyes wild. “An arrow! I thought he was going to _murder_ the Grand Cleric!”

Marian hushed her, as she'd gotten quite loud. Bethany looked around guiltily before turning back. She bit her lip, holding back a smile. “It was brilliant,” she whispered. “And look at the reward!” She jabbed the parchment insistently. “Four gold sovereigns!”

“For Andraste's sake, _be quiet_ ,” hissed Marian, reaching up to give Bethany's ear a sharp tug.

The mage uttered a noise of protest before mashing her lips together obediently, her whole face scrunching up with the effort. She noisily prodded the notice again. When Marian did not immediately respond, she reached forward and took her shoulders, shaking them.

With an annoyed grunt, Marian snatched her sister's wrist and dragged her away from the worshipping patrons. She led Bethany forcibly to a supply closet off the main hall and shoved her in. She shut the door behind them.

“You should not be here,” started Marian. Bethany only made half a noise before a glare cut her off. “You have been thoughtless and inconsiderate, and you will confess it at Andraste's feet before you leave.” Bethany nodded quickly. Marian sighed. “Maker, you'll be the death of me.”

“But did you read it?” blurted Bethany. “Four gold sovereigns! And all we've got to do is off some mercenaries who killed _a whole family_. Surely the Maker smiles on this--and on _us_ , sister.” Bethany placed a hand under her chin. It had taken time to grow accustomed to Bethany's manner of speaking, which included touch more often than it did not, but Marian no longer shied away.

“I know you've been trying awfully hard to provide for us,” said Bethany, a sad smile on her face. “Let me help. I barely make anything working for Lady Elegant. I know you want me to be careful, but...” She lifted her shoulders gently. “If I'm with you, then you can keep me safe, right?”

“You'll be safer making potions,” Marian pointed out.

Bethany shook her head. “I'll go mad. I haven't used magic in _months_.” For a moment, Bethany looked far too weary for such a young thing. “I can run and hide, and Maker knows I've spent my life doing it, but I'll never stop being a mage. There will always be risks; I can't live in constant fear of them.”

Marian pursed her lips. Tears had gathered in Bethany's eyes, and Marian had to look away.

A heavy, quiet moment passed before Bethany shuffled forward, laying her head gently on her sister's shoulder. “Don't shut me out, Marian,” she pled. “Talk to me.”

Something caught in Marian's throat. “I don't know what you want me to say,” she insisted.

“What you _think_ , you goose.” Bethany's fingers wove into her sister's hair, combing through the fair curtain at her back. “That's what you say to everyone else.” She turned her head, peering at her sideways.

There was something coarse in Marian's voice as she said, “Everyone else isn't the sister that I abandoned.”

Bethany lifted her head. “Mother didn't give you a choice,” she said emphatically. “You did what you had to, and you were there when it counted.” Her dark curls shook as she said, “You have to stop blaming yourself. You're here now, so _be here_. With me.”

The air had no right being so difficult to breathe. Marian's throat had closed up. Even if she had the words—and she didn't—they'd be stuck inside. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that she couldn't swallow, though she desperately needed to if she was going to keep the tears at bay.

The pressure building behind her eyes finally spurred Marian into action. She had to be strong for Bethany; she latched onto the thought, repeating it to herself until her throat loosened and she was able to speak again.

“We'll have to be careful,” she said quietly, her voice gone a bit hoarse.

Bethany's hand flew to her mouth. “You mean...?” she asked, trailing off. Marian nodded in response, and she squealed. “Oh! You won't regret it, sister. I'll be the best backup you've ever had. As good as Aveline--no, better!” She threw her right arm around Marian's shoulders, gesturing upward with her left. “The Hawke sisters: bashing heads in Kirkwall. Templar and mage joined together to _crush_ the-”

She cut herself off with a yelp as Marian tugged her ear again. “Discretion, Bethany,” she muttered.

Bethany pouted. “We're in a _closet._ ”

***

A nudge misbalanced Marian for a moment. She turned to frown at Bethany, who said, “Do try to look excited, sister. Four gold sovereigns! We're going to eat like kings.”

“I never get excited about killing.”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “You're no fun.” She turned to Aveline and repeated, “She's no fun.”

“They're wise words, Bethany,” said Aveline.

“You're no fun either,” the mage informed her.

***

There was something decidedly different about Bethany that day.

Marian and Bethany had made a lot of progress. Though it was difficult and sometimes very awkward, they'd both taken great strides to reconcile. Still, after a year in Kirkwall, Marian did not feel she'd settled properly into her role as a sister. If she was honest with herself, Bethany made her quite nervous. The girl was so free with emotion, with touch, with words; and this baffled Marian. She did not understand how to communicate with her. Sometimes she was so afraid of disappointing her, of failing her, that she said nothing.

After Bethany came to her in the chantry, Marian had thought for certain she'd failed again. But here Bethany was now, joking and humming little songs under her breath as they trekked the wilderness outside Kirkwall looking for mercenaries. Marian had never seen her so happy. She thought about asking Aveline, but the guardsman's bemused expression suggested this was new to her as well.

It was after they disposed of the second group of the Flint company mercenaries that Marian discovered some insight into this.

Bethany giggled as she inspected her bloodstained bodice. “That one got a bit close for comfort, didn't he?” she murmured.

Marian looked up from where she knelt over one of the fallen men. Aveline, who did not approve of looting, had gone just down the path under the pretense of looking for stragglers. Bethany stood surrounded by jagged pillars of ice that rose around her in a semicircle. One giant icicle had gone straight through a mercenary's chest.

Concern furrowed Marian's brow. “Are you alright, Bethany?”

“I'm actually having fun,” said Bethany with a contented shrug. “I haven't used magic like that in a long while.”

“I thought you didn't like using magic,” she said, a note of worry in her tone.

“Oh, it's not that.” Bethany waved her hand. She joined Marian, gingerly inspecting the corpses. “I'd _like_ to be normal, sure, but I'm not. I'm a mage. I'm tied to magic in a way that...” She paused, slipping a few copper coins into her purse. “Well, I can't really explain it, I guess.”

Unwilling to let the conversation slip away so easily, Marian wracked her brain. After a moment, she spoke, her voice wavering just a little. “The Knight-Commander that trained me once said a templar must be one with her weapon.” She moved to another body, stripping it of a fine leather belt as continued. “I didn't think much of it at the time; he had a lot of sayings like that. But when I learned to smite, I remembered those words, and I thought I finally understood them. Using templar abilities is like being connected to the Maker, in a way; but if you're not focused, the connection falls through.”

Marian met Bethany's gaze, finding an incredulous expression. “That's exactly how it is for me,” she said. She began to gesticulate. “When I use magic, I'm connected to the Fade. I'm a part of something so much bigger than me. Even if I resent what I am, it's still a nice feeling.” She added, almost sheepishly, “You know?”

“I think I do,” said Marian, nodding.

Both of them had stopped. Bethany smiled, something that started out small and uncertain, then grew until she was giggling again. Marian smiled too, catching her good humor. They looted the rest of the bodies in contented silence.

***

“This was a good day,” said Bethany, leaning back lazily on her hands.

Aveline grunted through a mouthful of dark berries that she insisted were not poisonous. Marian watched her closely, just in case. “It'll be better once we collect that reward,” said the guardsman.

“I'm going to buy a fresh loaf of the bread with raisins in from that adorable elf woman at the market and eat the _entire_ thing.”

“I'm craving apples. Remember how you could just pick armfuls of them off the trees in Ferelden?”

Marian listened as Bethany launched into a story about Carver stealing apples from a neighbor's orchard, enjoying the companionship. Aveline and Bethany were not close, and as far as Marian knew they rarely saw each other outside of her presence, but they seemed to be getting along well. Bethany's laughter came easily, and she even worked a chuckle or two out of Aveline. Both women seemed more at ease with the distance from Kirkwall. Marian appreciated this, though she couldn't say the same for herself.

Unlike her companions, Marian was raised in a large city with noise and bodies and constant movement. She hadn't gained an appreciation for nature or wide spaces until she was older; and even then, she'd always felt a little out of place without the shouts of merchants through her window, the warm notes of conversation as she drifted into pleasant dreams. The open world before her was too big, and Marian was too small.

Still, if it pulled smiles from Aveline that easily and had Bethany telling fond stories of the family she'd lost, Marian would take them out every week. She was a little ashamed to admit it had not occurred to her before now that there might be more to being a sister than ensuring physical well-being. She'd never seen Bethany this happy before, but by the Maker, she was going to make it a regular occurrence.

Perhaps Marian had found her answer outside the Chantry, just as the Grand Cleric had suggested. This realization caused her to frown. Now she would have to _thank_ the woman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having far too much fun with Bethany. We'll see more of other companions in the next chapter! Coming quite soon, to make up for the wait.


	5. Romantic

“You know, Hawke, if you're going to keep staring at me like that, you'll have to buy me a drink.”

Marian set her jaw. She was not sold on this whole Deep Roads idea, but more importantly: “I don't like rogues.”

“Neither do I, on principle,” said the dwarf candidly. “But they can be pretty damn useful when they're on your side.”

“He's right, you know,” said Bethany. “He is trying to help us.”

Varric sounded smug as he said, “See? Listen to the nice apostate. _She's_ reasonable.”

“I don't trust you,” said Marian shortly as they rounded another corner, combing through the crowd of refugees and thugs in the Undercity.

“I don't blame you,” said Varric. “But I find the promise of coin is a pretty good incentive to tolerate people, if not trust them.”

“I _am_ tolerating you.”

“Why, yes you are; how gracious of you.”

Marian remained silent for the rest of the walk to Anders' clinic. Bethany engaged Varric in polite conversation to ease the awkwardness, and Aveline remained silent beside them. She shared a look with the guardsman, who hadn't said a word about their new companion. Aveline rolled her eyes in response to the unasked question.

Aveline couldn't have held much love for rogues either. She'd probably put her sword through just as many of them as Marian had.

***

“Perhaps you two should wait out here,” she said, gesturing to Aveline and Varric. She recalled her first run-in with Anders and added, “The mage is... understandably cautious.”

“If I wait out here,” said Aveline, “I'm going to have to arrest half of Darktown.”

“Just relax, Red. Close your eyes; I'll sing you a lullaby.”

Aveline raised an eyebrow at Varric, then silently left the group to stand watch at one of the paths that diverged from the clinic. Marian started for the doors, sensing the magic that emanated from within, and Bethany followed at her side.

“You want me to come with you?” asked Bethany, trying and failing to hide a pleased expression.

“He might be more inclined to trust another mage,” said Marian. Noting how Bethany's face fell, she added, “And you're better at making friends than I am.”

Bethany nudged her lightly. “All you have to do is smile.”

“I couldn't possibly. My face would crack.”

Before Bethany could comment on the fact that her sister had actually made a _joke,_ they entered the clinic.

Marian had only glimpsed the inside before, but it looked much as she expected a clinic in Darktown to look. There were a few cots lying about, two intact and one that had splintered, shoved into a corner. Various chairs were scattered around the small space: a few pushed up against the wall, one at a cluttered worktable in the back, and another at the bedside of a pale child who was on the receiving end of healing magic. Every available surface was occupied by supplies, patients, and families; there was barely adequate standing space.

After a quick sweep of the place, Marian settled her eyes on the healer. Anders, the refugee woman had called him. He looked as haggard as she remembered, darkened eyes focused on his task. Magic poured from his hands, its intensity buzzing at the base of her skull. It was not uncomfortable, but it was insistent, and Marian found the sensation difficult to ignore with her proximity.

“He's powerful,” breathed Bethany, watching him with awe. She turned to Marian. “Can you feel it?”

Marian nodded, her eyes never leaving the mage. His hands shook with effort. As the stream of magic halted, the blue glow dissipating, Anders fell forward, catching himself on the edge of the cot. Bethany started for him suddenly, approaching the other side of the cot.

She spread her hands over the patient, much as Anders had done. She hesitated. Anders regarded her with no small amount of suspicion. After a moment, he nodded, and Bethany returned the gesture. Her healing magic was quite different from his; while Anders had channeled a steady stream, Bethany unleashed her power in a surge that flared brightly before fading into gentle pulses.

Another flash came from Bethany; Marian guessed it to be rejuvenating magic directed at Anders, who straightened and exhaled steadily. Meanwhile, the boy in the cot had risen, as had his mother beside him. She quite suddenly threw her arms around Anders, then Bethany, murmuring thanks through her tears before leading her healthy son from the clinic.

“Introductions later,” said Anders, directing another patient onto the cot. His eyes found Marian's, though he still addressed Bethany. “If your friend's going to stay, she might as well help.”

“I'm good with poultices,” said Marian as she started for the worktable, never one to waste time. “Have you enough bandages?”

“I've some linen if we need to cut more. Focus on the poultices, though.” Anders gestured to the table. “Should be ingredients in there somewhere. There are crates under the table. Elfroot's in the window-box.”

Marian got to work. The clinic was awfully noisy compared to the chantry's infirmary. Marian found that she preferred this, even if it got stuffy rather quickly. She had to remove her gauntlets and helm to work on the poultice; it wasn't long before she was tempted to remove the rest of her armor, but she settled for propping her sword and shield up next to the worktable, where she could keep a close eye on them.

The three of them made short work of the afflicted. In an hour, they had the packed clinic emptied. Marian was still working at the mortar and pestle when the last of the patients cleared out, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her sister slumped in a chair.

“Alright, Bethany?”

She looked up, smiling weakly, but Anders responded before she could. “You're not a healer, are you?” he asked, cleaning off one of the cots.

“I'm not,” she admitted with a chuckle. “I prefer fireballs myself.”

“I'm not surprised to hear that. Your magic is a bit... ah... energetic.”

“I guess I just don't have the healer's touch,” said Bethany with a shrug.

“That you don't,” he agreed, “but I thank you for the help, all the same.” He leaned against the cot, facing her. “It's Bethany?”

“Bethany Hawke,” she said. She gestured to Marian next. “This is my sister. She... just goes by Hawke. And we were happy to help.”

Anders turned to her, opened his mouth to speak, and then promptly closed it. Marian's brow furrowed. She followed his eyes to see that they were resting on her shield. The flaming sword was clearly visible, and Anders was clearly upset by it.

“This was my late husband's,” she quickly explained, the old lie coming with ease. “He served in Ferelden before the Blight.”

The healer settled, though he still looked suspicious. “My condolences,” he offered before turning his attention back to Bethany. “So you're Ferelden? I don't recall seeing you at the Tower.”

It occurred to Marian with a start that she'd heard the name Anders before. She measured her expression, though Anders was not looking at her, and tried to recall what she knew about the mage as Bethany detailed her life as an apostate.

She'd been stationed at Kinloch Hold then. A tide of memories threatened to pour in when she thought about the place, but Marian shut them out, focusing on the information she sought. She'd heard stories about the troublesome mage, the runaway from the Anderfels. Some of her brothers and sisters claimed that he was harmless; others disagreed, often loudly. He'd apparently escaped many times and had done so recently when she reached her post. As a result, she had never met him, though she certainly heard enough.

She wondered how he had become a Grey Warden. It must have happened after she fled to Kirkwall; but then, there were only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden after the battle at Ostagar. Her heart gave a hard, loud thump. Had the Hero of Ferelden recruited him? If so, he was in good company. Maker, but she'd never be rid of troublesome mages.

Marian refocused on the conversation in time to hear Anders ask, “So what do you need with me?” He glanced at Marian again, still looking a bit suspicious. “I'm assuming this isn't a social call.”

Bethany looked to Marian, who cleared her throat and rose to her feet. “My sister and I are joining an expedition into the Deep Roads. We heard that you were a Grey Warden and wondered if you might be able to aid us in finding an entrance.”

“I might have a few maps of the area,” he offered. “Of course, I would expect some form of...” He paused. His eyes slid to her weapon. “Say, are you any good with that sword?”

“I am. You must've heard of me. The name's Hawke, if you recall.” She inclined her head. “We met briefly.”

“Did we?”

“I didn't stay to chat. I believe I had an arrow in my shoulder at the time.”

His eyes lit up in recognition. “Right. You're that... smuggler, aren't you? The one the Coterie hates?” He sounded impressed as he said, “I hear they're planning to assassinate you.”

“Their plans often fall through,” said Marian indifferently.

Anders chuckled and replied, “Perhaps you can help me, then. Although...” He glanced at her shield again. “It'll depend on how much you want those maps.”

“Are you having problems with templars?”

“I'm not, actually. The Undercity's rather attached to its only healer,” he said vaguely. He paused for a moment, shifting position. His posture opened toward Marian. “I've a friend in the Circle here. I've been sending him messages through a maidservant in the Gallows. The replies stopped coming for awhile. I feared the worst... then I got one this morning.”

His tone had her skin tingling with warning. He came over to the worktable, shuffling through its contents before pulling a folded piece of parchment out of a wobbly drawer. He leaned against the desk next to her, staring down at it for a moment.

“Did you agree with your husband? About mages?” he asked, worrying the worn edges of the note between his fingers.

“I did, once,” said Marian. She glanced at Bethany, a fond smile finding her lips. Something warmed in her heart when it was returned.

She turned back to find his eyes on her. They probed quietly, and she allowed it. Perhaps she should have said more to convince the mage to trust her, but Marian could barely make sense of her own thoughts on the matter. Bethany's presence would have to be proof enough of her loyalties.

He handed the note over. She held his stare for another moment before she unfolded it, thumbing the creases carefully. As her eyes swept each line, the line on her forehead deepened. When she finished, she looked up to see Anders still scrutinizing her, waiting for a reaction.

“Well,” said Marian, handing the note back, “it seems you're wanted at the chantry tonight.”

Anders took the parchment, holding it up. “You know what this is,” he said, an accusation in his tone.

“I've an idea.”

“So say it,” he insisted. “Tell me I'm not mad.”

Marian sighed. She knew more than a passing thing or two about catching mages and could recognize an obvious templar trap when she saw one. Still, she hesitated. “Is it written in his own hand?” she asked.

“Yes, but the words are all wrong.”

“Have you ever met him at the chantry before?”

“Of course not,” he said, a little shortly.

Crossing her arms, Marian said, “Then it's a trap.”

“I know!” he shouted, throwing the note on the worktable. He reached up to run a hand through his messy blonde hair. “I don't know what those templars did to Karl, but when I get my hands on them...”

He bowed his head, clenching pale fists. He seemed to fight inside himself, a voice of a hatred no doubt fueled by his experiences as a mage. Marian hesitated for a moment as she observed the struggle. She thought of his tired eyes, hunched shoulders, of the way he handled his patients with gentle hands, and made a decision.

She reached out, placing a tentative hand on the healer's shoulder. She worked circles into the muscle with her thumb, his feathered pauldrons soft beneath her hand. “It'll be alright, Anders,” she said gently. “We'll figure out what's happened to your lover.”

Anders seemed to calm slightly, though his eyes remained shut. “He's not my lover,” he mumbled.

The note had indicated otherwise, but Marian let the matter slide. Since Anders had not yet shrugged her off, she moved her hand across his back to his other shoulder. She held him in a half-embrace, applying gentle pressure. He leaned into the touch, his expression settling as he exhaled.

When his eyes opened, they found her. Marian held his gaze again, hoping she hadn't overstepped. He straightened; Marian took the hint, letting her hand fall. He'd only just opened his mouth to speak when Marian caught a sudden flash of movement from the doorway. She reached for her weapon on instinct, before remembering that she had a rogue of her own now. Anders and Bethany had both tensed, but Marian smirked, settling back against the worktable with ease.

“Varric?” she addressed the apparently empty doorway. “Do you think you could get us in and out of the chantry tonight under the templars' noses?”

The dwarf came into view quite suddenly, removing the bolt from his crossbow and shifting the weapon onto his back with an air of nonchalance. “For you, Hawke?” he said, oozing charm as he twirled the bolt in his hands. “I'll think of something.”

***

“Make yourselves comfortable,” said Varric, sweeping them inside his suite with a dramatic gesture. “I'll get us a round.”

Marian shook her head. “No spirits for me.”

“I am _shocked_. Blondie?”

“Is that me?” asked Anders, reaching for his hair in a self-conscious gesture. “I don't drink much either, actually.”

“Aw, come on. You're not really going to make a dwarf drink alone, are you?”

Anders glanced at Marian. “Afraid so,” he said with a shrug.

“Fine, fine,” sighed Varric. “I'll be back up in a minute. While I'm gone, you two can discuss what terrible friends you are.”

With that, he left them to their own devices in his fairly large suite. It was nicer than Marian expected for its location inside a seedy tavern, but then, Marian had no room to judge accommodations. She supposed Anders wouldn't either. Being from the Undercity made them no better than rats to the rest of Kirkwall; the Hanged Man was a significant step up.

Anders must have felt similarly, for he remarked, “Ritzy place,” with a wry twist of his lips as he flopped into one of the chairs at Varric's table. “Cushions and everything. How positively decadent.”

As uncomfortable as the cots in the chantry were, Marian had to admit she'd been missing them lately. Most days, she was lucky to find a roof over her head, much less a proper bed. She hadn't bathed in weeks, and though she'd put on weight since she started earning a decent wage doing odd jobs, she was still frightfully lean beneath her bulky armor.

“I'm surprised they let us in the door,” Anders continued as Marian settled across from him, apparently not deterred by her lack of response. “You more than me.”

“Oh?” Marian's expression remained flat. “Do I smell worse than you?”

Anders chuckled. “I doubt that, but you're scarier. Only because nobody knows I can burn them alive with my mind.”

Marian shifted uncomfortably. Anders noticed, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Not that I plan to,” he added, sounding a touch defensive. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “Unless, of course, they insult my choice of dress. You would not believe how much shit I've taken for this set of robes.”

She eyed the feathers and assured him, “I would.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Well, we know whose health clinic you're not coming to the next time you get shot with an arrow.”

“My sister's a decent healer.”

Anders snorted and said, “Her technique is terrible. You can't treat healing like fireballs. She just _shoves_ her magic into people. Gets the job done, but it's so crude.” He grinned to himself. “Maker, I never thought I'd sound anything like the Senior Enchanters at the Tower. Am I really that old?”

“Or just that pretentious?” suggested Marian.

“Ouch. You enjoy hurting me, don't you?” He smirked. “You know, I'm into that.”

The blush spread quickly across Marian's cheeks, more out of surprise than anything else. Suddenly she wished she had something to occupy her hands. She fought to keep them still.

“Oh, look at you. That's precious.” Anders settled back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease. “You're a pious one, aren't you? That's why you don't drink?”

“You abstained as well.”

“Not out of piety,” said Anders, rolling his eyes.

She saw a flash of expression on his face, too brief to identify, before the door reopened and Varric entered with three mugs. “Ale for me, non-alcoholic cider for the two buzzkills,” he announced.

Marian sighed in relief and immediately took the offered mug. Varric's eyebrows raised.

“Hawke, happy to see me?” He gave Anders a suspicious look. “What'd you do to her, Blondie?”

Smirk back firmly in place, Anders shrugged and said, “Not a thing.”

***

“You can't seriously be crazy enough to just walk up and knock on the front door when you know it's a trap,” said Varric, sounding just the slightest bit impressed.

“I have to see him for myself,” Anders insisted. “I have to get him out of there. I should've done it sooner, but he...”

The mage leaned back, running a hand through his hair. Several shorter strands had escaped from their leather tie. He looked tired and disheveled, a far cry far from the easygoing manner he'd displayed earlier. Marian wondered if it was just that: a display.

“He wouldn't go with you,” finished Marian.

His head shot up, and she quickly schooled her expression. She doubted he'd care to commiserate with a templar, even if she could somehow explain that there were times she'd felt as trapped as the mages. That there was one time in particular she would have escaped but failed to persuade someone that she couldn't leave behind. And then... Well, it was too late.

It suddenly seemed so horribly ironic and _unfair_ that she and Anders had so much in common, when they were on opposite sides of a line in the sand that neither of them had drawn.

Marian hid her face behind her mug, taking a long sip. Maker, why was she having such trouble remaining indifferent? She was infamous for her stoicism, even among templars. She didn't like how easily Anders rattled her.

“Hold up,” said Varric, and Marian was immensely grateful for the interruption, even if it came in the form of an accusing finger pointed in her direction. “You asked if I could get you in and out, which I can. Maybe we can even distract the templars long enough for Blondie to have a chat with his friend, although that won't be easy. But we're not actually going to try to bust this mage out with just the three of us, right?”

Anders lifted his chin and said, “I won't leave him again. This is my best chance to get him out before they...” His throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily.

Without thinking, Marian reached across the table and took his hand in hers. The gesture surprised her a great deal more than it did Anders, who threaded their fingers together easily.

Varric suddenly sounded alarmed. “ _Hawke_. Please tell me it takes more than a pretty face for you to agree to jailbreak a mage with the help of another illegal mage, one divinely charismatic but definitely mortal dwarf, and only a few hours of preparation.”

“He's right,” said Marian gently. She stared at their intertwined hands, not trusting herself to look up. “We don't have the resources to break him out tonight. The most we can do is sneak you in.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” emphasized Varric, “and that carries a significant risk of being attacked by templars who think we're aiding and abetting. Hawke, I _know_ you're not about to suggest that we kill templars.”

“I'll go myself,” said Anders, quickly drawing his hand away. “It was foolish of me to ask for your help. To ask you to risk your lives for this.” He glanced up at Marian with a pained expression, then looked away. “The maps are in my desk. Bethany will be able to dispel the wards.”

He stood, his chair scraping roughly against the floor. Marian opened her mouth to protest, but nothing was forthcoming. He slipped out the door, leaving it slightly ajar, the sounds of singing and laughter drifting up the stairs.

“Poor guy,” remarked Varric, dropping from his seat. “We should grab Sunshine and pick up those maps before looters get to them.”

Marian was still staring out the door where Anders had disappeared, her arm resting on the table, stretched out in front of her.

Varric clapped a hand on her shoulder, startling her. “Come on, Hawke. There are plenty of pretty guys without that kind of baggage. You know it's no use jumping in the water after a drowning man; he'll just drag you down with him.”

She shrugged him off. “We're helping him, Varric,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“You can't be serious.” Marian regarded him soberly. He dragged a hand over his face. “Really? You're doing this for some guy you just met? Look, I get it if you want to make a grand gesture, but couldn't you pick something with a lower risk of dismemberment?”

“I'm not doing this for him.”

_I'm doing it for Nell. For all the times we should've run._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now that the setup's done and we're getting into the actual plot, there'll be less jumping around in time and more continuous narrative. Exciting?!


	6. Turncoat

Marian caught up to Anders outside The Hanged Man, convincing him to return to Varric's suite with a firm promise that they would help him free Karl. Varric was less than thrilled at the prospect, which he made very clear, but truly, Marian was surprised he helped at all. Perhaps he had a softer heart than he let on--either that, or Marian had underestimated just how valuable she was to him. She vaguely wondered just what sort of rumors he'd heard about her.

They had already decided not to involve Aveline or Bethany. Varric lamented this, but Marian refused to put Aveline in a compromising position with the Guard and she was certainly not going to let her sister anywhere near templars. She insisted that they didn't need the backup anyway, since they would not be fighting any templars.

“I don't see why we're so concerned with sparing the lives of corrupt jailers,” Anders protested, and Marian firmly reminded herself that _this wasn't for him_. In fact, she reminded herself of that several times, because Anders strongly disliked templars and had no issue vocalizing it.

He was not aware that one of the two people who was currently assisting in freeing his not-lover from 'prison' was formerly an evil templar. Somehow Marian did not feel inclined to inform of this fact. She left it to Varric to explain why killing templars would do them more harm than good. Anders might be leaving the city, but Varric and Marian still had to live here, and neither of them were eager to do it from inside a _real_ prison cell.

“Assuming the templars don't just hack us all to bits, of course,” said Varric optimistically.

Marian and Anders pooled together their knowledge of the tunnels and sewers to create an escape route for the two mages while Varric got in touch with some contacts with a safe-house that he and Marian could lay low in for awhile. The suite was a hub of activity, messengers going to and fro, maps and various pieces of parchment laden with scribbles covering the long table (Marian confiscated the quill from Anders when she discovered that his handwriting was illegible), and a tavern wench in and out every half-hour with refills.

Finally, after hours of work, they had a plan. Varric put their odds of not being impaled by sharp metal objects at 70-30. When Marian asked him to clarify which of those numbers represented failure, he declined to answer.

***

“Ready?”

“I've always wanted to do this.”

Marian blinked. “What?”

“You know.” Anders shrugged, the gesture quick and unnatural. He flashed her a nervous smile. “The clandestine lovers thing? It's a fantasy.”

“Keep your kinky love life to yourself, please, Anders.”

“Right. Sorry. I'm a nervous talker.”

_Maker, please gag the mage._

Marian gave his hand what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze and led him around the corner. There were several lesser-known entrances to the chantry, used to deliver supplies and food. This one was rather infamous, and Marian could only hope that the rumors she'd heard about it were true. She certainly hadn't explored them for herself.

She vaguely recognized the lay-sister at the entrance, though the woman seemed to know her. “Sister Marian?” she asked, glancing at Anders with obvious approval. “I never thought I'd see _you_ here.”

“Ah. Well.” Marian cleared her throat. “I haven't taken any vows, so. It isn't strictly blasphemous.”

The woman winked. “Right. 'Course not.” She nodded to the entrance. “Go on, then. Try not to be too loud.”

“Does this sort of thing really happen that often?” whispered Anders as they walked through the service halls. “The sisters in the Tower were always stuffy old hags. There was this one, though, a pretty young thing with the most heavenly-”

“ _Anders_.”

“Sorry.”

She deposited Anders as quickly as possible, leaving him with strict instructions not to speak to anyone, lest he give away their entire plan. _Nervous talker._ How many hours did they spend planning, and he hadn't thought to mention that?

The chantry was rather empty at night, though it remained open at all hours. A verse of the Chant filtered in with various ambient noise as Marian drew closer to the main hall. She clasped her hands firmly in front of her to keep from fidgeting, bowing her head as though in reverence. She had left the Chantry with little fanfare, and not too long ago; if someone did recognize it as odd that she was wandering the hall late at night in Chantry robes, Marian was confident she could talk herself through it.

More confident than Anders, in any case. _Maker._ She'd expected a Grey Warden to have a little more mettle. Perhaps that was her mistake. But she had sensed Anders' power, and he'd seemed rather confident about wielding it against templars if he needed to. Surely he didn't plan to heal them to death.

She felt a surge of protectiveness, which worried her. She was too invested in this. Saving Anders and Karl now wouldn't save Nell, Marian knew that, but it was _more_ than that. Marian had dedicated her life to protecting mages. Certainly this was not how the Chantry taught her to do it, but it still gave her a sense of purpose. Perhaps it was foolish to cling to it.

_Now you get sensible? Sweet Andraste. You've outdone yourself this time, Marian._

She clenched her fists, resolute. She'd made a promise. She was a woman of her word. She'd dug herself into this hole, and the only way out was down. _Maker preserve this fool._ If everything went according to plan, she was going to pray for a week, because the only way it'd happen was through the Maker's grace.

Marian found Karl quickly, standing smack in the middle of one of the wider areas of the main hall, his back to her. She felt a surge of triumph. She'd considered several possible locations for the templars to set up their trap, and now here was the bait, sitting exactly where she'd predicted. That'd make it easier on Varric, who should be able to implement what they had decided was their most likely plan.

She approached Karl directly, but slowly. Rushing now would only alert the templars to their plot. The pieces were all set; it was time to make their move.

“Good evening, serah,” said Marian quietly as she drew even with Karl. “I hope I am not interrupting.”

Karl turned to face her, and Marian did the same. Her eyes immediately flew to his forehead. “Good evening, Sister,” replied Karl in a flat voice.

Marian recovered as quickly as she was able, though it took several seconds. “Is there anyone you wish to light a candle for?” she asked, running through strategies in her mind.

Would it be best to cut their losses now? If she told Anders that his friend was Tranquil, could he be persuaded to leave alone? _He'd want to see for himself_. Yes, he'd been rather stubborn on that point. So perhaps they could go ahead with the plan, and once Anders saw that Karl was... well, that he would be unwilling to flee, surely he'd come to his senses. She just had to get Karl to Anders. Now, how in the world _did_ one go about persuading a Tranquil mage?

“I have no need to light a candle,” said Karl. “I find the current level of light to be sufficient.”

“Of course. Do you mind if I light one?”

“I do not.”

Marian pursed her lips, lighting the candle silently. “This is for a friend of mine. A rebellious friend. It is a shame when our friends rebel against proper authority, is it not?”

“To do so is most unwise,” agreed Karl.

“I wish that I could convince him to turn himself in to the templars,” she continued carefully. “He is at risk of hurting himself and others.”

“The templars will catch him.”

“They may be able to, but I fear for their safety. My friend is very dangerous. If he could be convinced to come peacefully, it would be much safer for everyone.”

Karl turned to her, expression blank, and asked in his monotone, “Are you trying to deceive me?”

Marian swallowed. “I am asking for your help, serah. Perhaps my friend will listen to a fellow mage.”

“Very well.”

He offered his arm. Startled, Marian took it. She resisted the urge to look around the main hall for templars as she led him down the steps. It was up to Varric now.

Marian was still running through scenarios in her mind, imagining how Anders would react. She doubted he could be convinced to turn himself in, runaway that he was, but would he at least allow Karl to return? She could not imagine a Tranquil mage fleeing templars. She didn't even know what was going on in his head right now, why he chose to follow her. He seemed to have some idea what she was doing. Perhaps he truly thought that Anders could be convinced, or perhaps he had faith in the templars.

They were nearing the designated room, and there seemed to be no templars on their heels. Karl had not said a word, and Marian was too afraid to speak lest he change his mind. When they reached the correct room, Marian held the door for Karl, gesturing him inside. That should've been the end of her involvement; now she was supposed to head directly to the safe-house and wait for Varric. Instead, she lingered in the doorway.

“Karl,” whispered Anders, his voice pained. “Maker, _no_.”

“The templars know you are here, Anders. Please go with them peacefully.”

Anders shook his head. “I'm so sorry, love. I should've gotten to you sooner.”

Marian had seen people react to the Tranquil in many different ways. The Rite had always made her a bit uncomfortable, but she'd performed it all the same. She saw it for what it was meant to be: an act of mercy. It was regrettable that such extreme measures had to be taken, but if it saved lives, it was justified. Some of the mages, though, seemed to think that death was the preferable alternative.

Anders was one of them.

She saw the flash of his knife and immediately threw herself in front of Karl. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“We promised each other,” said Anders, his mouth taut. “We promised that if it happened to one of us, the other would set him free.”

“I won't let you hurt him.” Marian backed toward the door, taking Karl with her. She felt the pull of magic at the base of her skull and prepared a cleanse. “Anders, let him go.”

Marian found herself stunned by an overwhelming force. She panicked for a moment. She hadn't felt Anders cast, but his eyes glowed a fierce blue, and his voice boomed as he said, “ _He is already gone. The templars have imprisoned him within his own body. This is a mercy._ ”

She reached for her will, finding it difficult with the magic that pulsed in her skull. She recognized the taint of it, something like a rotten smell, but not a smell at all. It curled inside her mind, and it took every ounce of willpower to silence him. It wasn't as powerful as it would've been on a full dosage of lyrium—and Marian had been cutting back for months—but it was enough to cut off whatever sort of magic he was using. He stumbled slightly, and when he opened his eyes again, they'd stopped glowing.

“The templars have found us,” said Anders, offering a hand to Marian, who belatedly realized that she was on the floor. She wasn't sure if it was Anders' doing or her own. “We have to go.”

“Anders,” said Karl, his voice enthused with emotion that he should not have been capable of. Anders froze with his hand stretched out. “What did you do? I... It's like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world.”

“Karl,” Anders breathed, going to him immediately. He tenderly brushed Karl's cheek, his eyes filling with tears. Marian, still dazed, rose clumsily to her feet.

“Quickly; it's fading. You have to end it, Anders. It's terrible. All the light in the world, gone. It's worse than we ever imagined.”

“Ssh, love,” mumbled Anders, his knuckles white against the dagger's hilt. “I'll set you free.”

“I'm glad I got to see you again,” whispered Karl. His hand clutched Anders' shoulder in a vice-like grip that slowly relaxed. His expression fell toward blankness, and then suddenly, his eyes widened. The dagger clattered to the floor, and Anders slowly lowered Karl's body, thumbing his eyelids closed. He planted a kiss on the sunburst brand, then rose and took Marian's hand firmly in his.

She let him pull her towards the door, speechless.

***

Marian stalked the streets in her hastily-attached armor, finally coming to the alley that Varric had described. He had done so quite accurately; the stink of dog permeated the air, mingling with refuse and the general dusty smell of Lowtown. She climbed the steps to a nondescript door, performing the knock she'd practiced.

Growling came from inside the hovel. A wooden panel at the top of the door slid aside, and a pair of eyes peered at her. After a moment, it closed. A command silenced the growling, and the door was opened by a man in leather armor.

“Your room's in the back. Dwarf's already in there.”

“Thank you,” said Marian, giving him a nod.

She made her way through the small hovel, passing through an open room that contained a table and chairs littered with more men in the midst of what appeared to be a card game and four vicious-looking mabari hounds that growled as she walked by. There were a few overlapping shouts of, “Friend!” from the men, and immediately one of the hounds leapt up and bounded for her. Marian tensed.

“Hector!” shouted one of the men. “Get back here, you stupid hound! She doesn't want you.”

The dog, Hector, stopped in front of her. He looked up at her, giving a plaintive whine. She reached forward slowly. He sniffed her hand quite thoroughly before nuzzling into it.

“He's never gonna leave you alone, now.”

“He's alright.” She scratched behind his ears briefly before continuing to the back of the hovel. Hector followed her, attempting to sniff her legs as she walked.

Varric appeared at the end of a hallway, his posture visibly relaxing as he took her in. “Hawke. I have to admit, you had me a little concerned for a minute there.”

“There were complications,” said Marian, sighing heavily. “ _Several_ complications.”

Hector whined beside her, pushing his face into her hand. She scratched his head absently. Varric raised an eyebrow but made no comment as he gestured her inside. “Sorry about the accommodations,” he mentioned, grimacing notably. “Best I could do on short notice.”

The room contained two cots with a desk pushed between them. Despite the overwhelming smell of mabari, they were the best accommodations she'd had in a month. “Thank you for this,” said Marian. “For all of it. I know you didn't agree with it, and... well, you were right.”

Varric looked surprised. “Huh.” He sat down on one of the cots. “I'm often right, of course, but I didn't expect to hear it from you.”

“Neither did I,” she said wryly. “But then I watched an abomination stab a Tranquil through the heart and call it mercy, so.” She shrugged tiredly. “It's a day for strange things.”

“Err.. I'm gonna need a few more details, there, Hawke.”

Marian sighed again and started to remove her armor. “Can it wait until morning? I'm exhausted.”

Varric nodded. Marian appreciated the display of tact—just when she'd thought the dwarf had none—and made a mental note to thank him again. Maker, he deserved more than that after tonight. There really was no way of wriggling out of that expedition now, and Varric must know it.

She removed the rest of her armor in silence, piling it up in the corner. Varric shuffled some papers around on the desk before he extinguished the light. He made to close the door, then glanced at Hector, who was sitting at Marian's feet.

“Get outta here, dog,” said Varric, making a shooing motion at Hector. The dog looked at him, tilted his head, and then looked at Marian. Varric huffed.

Marian settled down on the cot in her tunic and leggings. She patted the spot next to her, and Hector jumped up. She grinned at Varric, who said, “You want to smell like mabari for a week? Be my guest,” and shut the door.

The cot was small, and Hector was rather large; but after some shuffling around, they achieved a position comfortable enough for sleep. Marian listened to the dog's heavy breathing, letting it lull her into fitful sleep.

***

Marian walked the halls of Kinloch Hold like a ghost, shuffling silently in her gleaming silver armor. It was odd that the shifting plates made no noise as she walked her nightly patrol, but then, it was also odd that she could see perfectly in complete darkness. Marian noted both of these things and questioned neither of them. They didn't seem very important.

She wasn't quite sure which floor she was on. The floors looked largely the same, circular stone corridors that wrapped around the inner tower. The outer tower held the dorms, where the mages ought to be soundly asleep in their beds if they knew what was good for them. Of course, mages rarely knew what was good for them.

She stopped in front of a familiar door, her hand hesitating over the knob. Odd. She had every right to be there; protecting mages was her duty. Why shouldn't she go inside? There was something... But she couldn't think of it. No matter.

Her heart fluttered as she entered the apprentice dorms. There was a secret here, something that was just hers, something special. She had to find it.

It didn't strike her as strange that every bed was empty. If all the mages had escaped in the night, surely she could start her search in the morning.

Marian didn't know what she was looking for until she found it. A pair of brown eyes gleamed in the darkness. And suddenly, it didn't seem so dark. Wasn't that odd? But it must be dawn now. That would explain why the apprentice was sitting awake on her bunk rather than sleeping.

“Good morning, apprentice,” said Marian. _Don't smile_ , said something in the back of Marian's mind, but she ignored it. Why shouldn't she smile? She was happy.

A bright grin broke out across the apprentice's face. “Oh, you're so stuffy.” She blew an errant strand of red hair from her face. “You know you don't have to call me that when we're alone.”

“You know very well that I do, apprentice.” Marian was trying to be stern, but she wasn't sure why, so she gave up. She laughed at the mage's exaggerated pout. “Oh, alright, Nell,” she conceded. “Have it your way.”

“I always do,” said Nell, giving her a secret smile.

As Marian reached out for her, something in Nell's face twisted. Her warm brown eyes turned bright blue, various cracks glowing beneath her skin. Her lips parted, revealing a set a razor sharp teeth. Marian stumbled backwards. Nell threw her head back, and the sound that accompanied the motion was something between a wail and a laugh.

“No,” whispered Marian. “Not you. Maker, anyone but you.”

There was the sharp sound of a blade being drawn. Ser Cullen was suddenly present, an inhuman smile on his face. “I've been waiting a long time for this,” he said, staring eagerly at Nell.

A scream tore through Marian. As she lunged forward to stop Cullen, the scene shifted. Nell was on her knees in the Harrowing Chamber, Cullen's sword raised above her. They seemed so far away. Marian tried to run, but it was like moving through thick fog; no matter how she strained, she didn't seem to be getting any closer.

Nell's eyes were back to their usual brown and full of tears as she turned to Marian and said, “We should've run.”

***

Marian woke to foul-smelling breath and a tongue in her face. She jolted up, nearly sending Hector flying, but the dog repositioned himself atop her, his paw digging into her groin. She grunted in pain and shifted him off. She sat up in the cot, wiping her hand over her wet face. Hector helpfully licked her ear.

“Stop it,” she whispered groggily, shoving his face away. He whined. “ _Hush_.”

“Hawke?” Varric groaned sleepily from his cot. “Ugh. Get that dog out of here.”

She got out of bed, and Hector followed. She opened the door and pointed into the hallway. He obeyed, sitting just outside the door. With an exasperated half-smile, she patted his head and shut the door.

Marian returned to bed, offering a whispered apology to Varric, who grumbled unintelligibly and was back to snoring within the minute. Marian had already forgotten most of the dream, her heart rate gently slowing. Nightmares were a fairly regular occurrence lately, and Nell featured in most of them. Marian had thought that with the news of the Blight's end, her subconscious would finally be able to let Nell go. Perhaps it would take more time.

Time and distance. That was how these things healed. But Marian couldn't help thinking she'd feel much better if she could just get a letter to Nell somehow, to hear that she was _really_ alright. Nell was always so good at pretending.

Struggling to let these thoughts go, Marian buried her face in the thin, ratty blanket. It was warm and reeked of dog.

 


End file.
